


We’ve All Walked Miles (singing the blues)

by Squeaky



Series: Already Where You Belong [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Depression, F/F, F/M, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Pietro Maximoff, Hurt Vision, M/M, No horses were hurt in the making of this fic, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Mention of Parent Death, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Phil Coulson is a Great Dad, Protective Phil Coulson, So is Grant, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, smoking is bad for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 61,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are not going well at Phil Coulson's house:</p>
<p>Pietro hates Tony Stark. He hates him so much, in fact, that he refuses to go to school with the other children and heads off to the local high school, alone. </p>
<p>Jonas has finally woken up in hospital and he begins to recover under Wanda's tender loving care. But he's been lying about his past, and he can't tell the truth without destroying everything.  </p>
<p>Steve loves Bucky, and being away from his boyfriend is almost more than he can bear. </p>
<p>Phil is glad that Pietro's making friends and that Jonas is recovering, but he knows things are not going well and that trouble is brewing. But even he can't imagine what's coming to the farm, or the damage that will be left in it's wake...</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ve All Walked Miles (singing the blues)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from ["Lifted."](https://vimeo.com/39404804) By Alysha Brillinger. A fantastic song that's great to listen to when things aren't okay in your world.
> 
> And speaking of things in your world... **Please** take note of the tag warnings! There is mention of past child abuse, domestic violence, time spent in a refugee camp, and the off-screen accidental death of two secondary canonical characters. There is serious teen-on-teen violence and one teenage character has suicidal thoughts and is depressed. Please don't read if it may trigger you. 
> 
> Thanks again to [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/works) for cheerleading above and beyond the call of duty, and for the title banner. This is unbeta'd, so be warned.
> 
> And another BIG **thank you!** to all you spectacular people who commented and kudoed the first three fics in this series. You wanted to know what happened to Jonas and your wish is my command.
> 
> * * *

* * *

  


“Do we have any idea what happened?” 

Phil Coulson turned at the sound of Nick Fury’s voice. “You’re the Detective, you tell me.” 

He was standing in the sterile waiting room of the small Poughkeepsie emergency department, waiting for news on the status of the young man who’d collapsed, unconscious and bleeding, in front of Steve and Bucky in the horse barn just that morning. 

“Deputy Chief,” Nick said as he strode further into the room. “And that usually means I know less than everyone else.” 

Phil smirked. “All I know is what Steve and Bucky told me about finding him in the barn. One of your officers is interviewing Steve now.” Phil paused and then added pointedly; “again.”

“You know it’s just procedure.” 

“You know he’s only eighteen.” 

Nick narrowed his one good eye at Phil, which would’ve been much more intimidating if they hadn’t been close friends for nearly thirty years. “He wasn’t curled up on the floor crying when I checked in on him. I think he can take it.” 

“I just know what your officers are like.” 

It was Nick’s turn to smirk. “You should know. You used to be one.” 

Phil smiled in agreement. He’d been first an officer and then a Detective with NYPD for over thirty years. After a nearly-fatal gunshot wound to his shoulder three years previously, he’d had to retire. But leaving the force hadn’t been all bad. It’d allowed him to become the proud adoptive parent and guardian of eight teenagers, three of whom had joined his household mere days before. 

“Speaking of police, how’d your team get involved with this? I would’ve thought Poughkeepsie PD would be handling this case, not NYPD. No matter how mysterious it was.” 

And it certainly was mysterious. The injured boy had said his name was ‘Jonas,’ and then lost consciousness. He had yet to wake up. Phil and Nick were now at Poughkeepsie general hospital, along with at least three of Nick’s officers who were conducting the interviews with Steve and Bucky. 

“We were called in,” Nick replied to Phil’s question. “Poughkeepsie’s Chief has a hunch that the boy’s story is going to get complicated.”

Phil tilted his head. “I could see that.” 

“Kid shows up, bleeding all over the place with no jacket, no shoes and no I.D. You bet it’s complicated.” 

The door to the hospital waiting room opened and both Phil and Nick turned towards it. Melinda May, Phil’s Case Worker and Nick’s wife came in. Because Jonas was apparently a minor, Children’s Protective Services had been called in as well. Even though Melinda worked out of the New York City office, she was the State specialist on difficult cases, and this boy certainly seemed to qualify. She gave both men a brief nod. “Gentlemen.” 

“Any news?” Phil asked. He’d called the ambulance as soon as Bucky’d relayed the story of the injured boy in the barn, and then spent the next frantic few minutes helping Steve keep direct pressure on Jonas’ still-bleeding wounds until the paramedics arrived. He’d had a vague impression of straw-blond hair and startlingly pale skin before the paramedics had taken over. He’d sent Steve in the ambulance and then followed with Bucky in his car after obtaining both Tony and Bruce’s promise to watch over the four younger teens left at the house. He’d called the Poughkeepsie PD along the way; arranging for officers to meet them at the hospital so that he could follow the ambulance and still fulfill his civic duty. 

But there was absolutely no reason for Phil to be there. 

He didn’t know the boy, and beyond helping Steve deliver extremely competent first-aid, he had no real connection. He hadn’t even seen him when he’d been briefly conscious, and yet, he felt the same pull with this boy as he’d had when he’d first seen Natasha, scared and defiant, peeking out from behind Melinda’s legs, or Clint, equally unconscious in his own hospital bed. Or Bruce at ten, terrified but so brave after witnessing his mother’s murder.

Phil fiercely loved all his children, but the intense love he now felt for Steve, Tony and Bucky had developed at a slower pace. It was the way he felt his love developing for Wanda and her twin Pietro. 

But for some reason, he’d felt an immediate paternal rush for Jonas. Swift and primal and completely unexplainable. 

“The doctor said he was just covered in scrapes and cuts and some were very deep. She also said that his wounds are probably around two or three days old and they’re badly infected.” Melinda grimaced. “She spent the last hour pulling pieces of wood and stone out from his skin and she’s still not sure she’s got it all.” 

Phil frowned. “That sounds painful.” 

“I’m sure it would be if he were awake. They’ve transfused him already and they’re giving him IV medication to control his pain.” 

“What about the gash on his head?”

“CT scan was clear, which is good news, but it doesn’t rule out a mild concussion. He hasn’t woken up yet on his own, but the blood loss and pain medication may have something to do with that.”

“What the hell happened?”

Melinda looked at her husband. “Unclear. Dr. Cho said that he looks like, and I quote, ‘someone rolled him fast down a rocky slope in a barrel but forgot the barrel’.”

Nick and Phil exchanged a glance. “Pushed out of a car?” Phil asked.

Nick nodded. “And then he rolled down the embankment and kept rolling until he hit something.”

“That would explain the gash on his head. But why didn’t he have shoes on?” 

Nick glared at Phil. “You’re a Detective. Figure it out.”

“Former Detective.” Phil snapped his fingers. “He was robbed.”

“No shoes, no jacket. Makes sense.” 

“It would also explain why he had no I.D. on him.” Melinda sighed. “I have no idea who his parents are.” 

“They’re probably worried sick,” Phil murmured. He thought of his own children, and how terrible it would be if one of them was lost or injured and he didn’t know. He shuddered. “So we have no idea who this kid is at all?”

“Unless Steve got more from him than ‘Jonas,’ I’m afraid we don’t.”

“I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us what we need as soon as he wakes up.” 

Melinda’s face fell. “He may not wake up.” 

Phil blanched. “What?” 

Melinda put her hand on his arm. “Dr. Cho said his infection is really bad—“ 

“But he’s on antibiotics.”

“—and combine that with his blood-loss and the severities of his injuries means that he might die. We need to be ready for that.”

Nick’s expression turned ferocious. “We’ll find the people who did this. You know we will.” 

“Of course.” Phil agreed automatically, his heart aching for a boy that he’d never met.

* * *

“Samwise is totally in love with Frodo,” Tony said with authority. He was sitting in-between Bruce and Clint on the couch with Wanda on Clint’s left side and Bruce on Tony’s right. Natasha was on the loveseat kitty-corner to the couch, her feet stretched out. 

Pietro had chosen the armchair that Phil usually sat in, as far away from the others as he could get and still be in the same room.

“Totally,” Clint agreed as he grabbed another handful of popcorn.

“I don’t see it,” Bruce said, looking up from the textbook he’d been reading. He lowered the very shiny and modern-looking pair of headphones that he’d been wearing. “To me it’s always looked like a friendship type of love. Not sex.” 

Tony made a face at Bruce. “You really think that’s just a bromance? Really?”

Pietro grit his teeth in irritation at the conversation. The six of them were lounging in the living room waiting for Phil, Steve and Bucky to get back from the hospital. They’d finished their chores and now they were killing time with _Lord of the Rings._ Pietro and Wanda had already seen the series of course. Their father and mother had showed it to them with great delight when they’d been deemed ‘old enough’ when they were eight. He’d been thinking with fondness of watching the DVD in the living room of their apartment, squished between Wanda and his father. But then Tony had opened his big mouth and ruined everything. 

“Be quiet,” Natasha said, voicing what Pietro was thinking. She turned the page of her book without looking up. 

“Put on your headphones,” Tony said dismissively. “We’re having a discussion.”

“You can borrow mine,” Clint said to Natasha. 

“Borrow my extra pair,” Tony said. “They’re better.” 

“You already lent Bruce your extra pair.” Clint indicated Bruce, who’d raised the headphones again and was back to intently reading the textbook. 

“I wish I was wearing headphones,” Pietro muttered. 

“I meant my extra extra pair,” Tony said. “They’re by my bed. Or under it. Whatever.” 

Natasha didn’t look up. “I’m not going to your room.” 

“I’ll get them.” Clint jumped up immediately and ran upstairs. 

Pietro rolled his eyes. The way that boy doted on his girlfriend was sickening. _Women want men, not lapdogs,_ Pietro remembered his father telling him and he smiled for a moment.

But then reality hit him again. His father was dead. His mother was dead. Both of them buried under thousands of tons of rubble from a city bombed straight to hell. He felt that nauseating rush of thickness in his throat; the way his eyes burned and he grit his teeth. 

His eyes flicked to Tony and where he was intently watching the movie, and his gaze hardened, the familiar flare of anger quickly burning away the sick feeling of sadness. It was the Starks’ fault his parents were dead. 

“Seriously though,” Tony continued, completely oblivious to Pietro’s thoughts, “I can’t believe that you don’t see how much text there is in this subtext between Frodo and Samwise. Framwise? Samdo? What is the name of this ship anyway?” He nudged Bruce to get his attention.

“Baggee,” Natasha said. 

“For Baggins and Gamgee, right.”

“I like Samfro,” Wanda said. 

“It is all stupid,” Pietro said sharply. “And you’re all stupid for talking of this instead of watching the movie!”

“Hey relax, no homo,” Tony said. “Everyone’s seen this movie, like, a million times. It doesn’t matter if we talk.” 

“It matters to me!” Pietro stood. “And I want you to shut up!”

“Pietro!” Wanda admonished him. “There is no need for that.” 

“Of course you take his side,” Pietro sneered at her.

“She’s not taking his side,” Bruce lowered his headphones again. “There’s no side here.” 

“No, there are only Starks.”

Bruce’s expression turned confused. “What?”

Natasha looked up from her book. “We’re not all Starks. That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, right. How could I possibly forget your hate-on for all things Stark? You haven’t mentioned it for, like, five whole minutes.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Wanda glared at her brother. “Tell him Pietro. Tell him you don’t hate him.” 

“Stop speaking for me!” Pietro hissed at her in Sokovian. “You know exactly how I feel! Why don’t you feel the same?”

“You need to get over that!” She hissed back in their native language. “Like I have. We live here now and Tony’s only been good to us. You need to stop!”

“Starks killed our parents!” Pietro said, still in Sokovian. “I will _never_ get over that!” The damn thickness in his throat was back. He swallowed hard against it, ruthlessly shoving it down.

“Bruce is a Stark!” Wanda said in English.

“And the fact that you --“ he gestured violently towards Bruce and Wanda, “—are both okay with it is _not_ okay with me!”

“I fucking didn’t _do_ anything to your parents!” Tony said vehemently as he got up from the couch. “Why is this so fucking hard for you to get through your thick skull? What’s it going to take? We need to duke it out somewhere? Go mano a mano until you’re satisfied I’ve bled enough for the cause?”

“You will never bleed enough to bring back my family.”

Wanda gasped. 

“Pietro!” Bruce admonished. 

“It’s okay. I get it. He’s a hater. I’ve had enough of those in my life. What’s one more? Movie’s boring anyway.” Tony put the bowl of popcorn down on the table and walked out.

“I didn’t find the headphones…” Clint stopped as he entered the living room, craning his neck to watch Tony boot it up the stairs. “Where’s Tony going?”

“Away,” Natasha said with a pointed look at Pietro. She folded down the page of her book and put it on the coffee table. 

“Damnit!” Bruce moved from the couch and put his hands on his hips. “Pietro, can’t you mind your manners for two minutes? We’ve barely been here for forty-eight hours!”

“Oh, this is _my_ fault?” Pietro whirled on him. 

“Yes!” Wanda glared at him. “Yes it is your fault!” 

“I knew you’d take his side! You’re a Stark now.” He pointed his finger accusingly at Bruce. “And you!” He turned to his sister. “You’re now his biggest fan! I am the only one who remembers our parents! I’m the only one who remembers that Starks killed them!” His voice cracked and he snarled with disgust. He turned and walked towards the stairs.

“Tony didn’t kill anybody,” Clint said. 

Pietro slammed his shoulder hard into Clint as he walked by, causing Clint to stumble back. “It’s none of your fucking business.” 

Clint shoved him. “Tony’s my friend!”

“It’s not your business!” Pietro shouted and shoved Clint back. 

Natasha immediately appeared between the two of them, her hands, small but powerful, pressing them both back. “Stop it!” 

“You can all go to hell.” Pietro stalked to the door, pulled on his shoes and jacket and went out. 

“Pietro!” Wanda called, but he ignored her, slamming the door behind him. 

No one came after him, and he viciously pushed down the disappointment that Bruce or Wanda hadn’t come running to make him feel better. His mouth thinned. They’d chosen their side. 

He took off running. Even before coming to the States, or the camp or _anything,_ anytime Pietro didn’t want to feel something, he’d run. It allowed him to lose his thoughts in the rhythm of his body; the pounding of his heart; the satisfying cadence of his feet on the pavement; the way the air went in and out of his lungs.

But even that was denied him. The cold air irritated his still-healing lungs and he coughed, and then he was hacking hard enough that he had to slow back to a walk. He had another doctor’s appointment on Monday, but it seemed like it was still going to take longer until he could run the way he wanted—the way he _needed_ \--to. He hoped that at least he’d finally be cleared to go back to school, The idea of spending even another minute trapped on the farm made him want to puke. 

_Things were so much better in New York,_ he thought savagely. They might have been broke and nearly starving and all three of them living in a shitty little bachelor in a crappy neighbourhood, but they’d been together with no Tony Stark to fuck everything up. 

Tony Stark, who’d killed his parents and then stolen his brother and his sister. His twin sister. The only real family he had left. 

He grit his teeth and turned up the driveway towards the road, not thinking where he was going, just that he had to get away. He coughed again, wishing he had his puffer with him. But his lungs weren’t too bad now that he’d slowed down, and he’d rather die than go back.

And if his eyes were tearing while he was walking, well the wind was pretty cold, anyway.

* * *

Wanda’s head snapped up as soon as the door opened. She was sitting on the couch in the now-deserted living room, biting her fingernails as she waited for Pietro to return. As soon as he’d left she’d wanted to go after him, but Natasha had told her to give him time to cool off. Wanda had never let Pietro ‘cool off’ in his life, but Natasha sounded so sure that Wanda had acquiesced. But he’d been gone for almost an hour and Wanda had chewed through most of her nails. 

It wasn’t her brother. Steve and Bucky came through the door, holding hands. Normally Wanda would be charmed by that simple show of affection but now all she could think about was Pietro. 

“He’s with Phil,” Bucky said as soon as he saw her distress. “He was walking on the road. We picked him up on our way back.” 

“Oh thank God,” Wanda breathed in Sokovian. She sagged against the couch, suddenly feeling like she was going to cry.

“You okay?” Steve asked. He knelt in front of her, his blue eyes full of compassion.

She nodded and forced herself to smile. How could she possibly explain how awful it felt to not know where her brother was, or if he was okay? “I’m fine.” 

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look. “Okay,” Steve said with obvious reluctance as he straightened. “But I’m here if you want to talk or anything.”

“He’s great to talk to,” Bucky nodded at his boyfriend. “Seriously.” 

Wanda’s smile became less forced. “I remember from the hospital. If I ever need to talk, I’ll be sure to come to you.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Steve smiled at her. He pointed over the shoulder with his thumb. “He’ll probably be in any minute.” 

She nodded firmly. “Good.” 

Steve and Bucky exchanged another look, showing that strange telepathy that couples sometimes had. “We’re going to head upstairs. I’ve gotta pack for school. Tony’s taking me and Pepper and Bruce back tonight,” Steve said unnecessarily and they both left. 

Wanda put another fingertip in her mouth. Pietro hated it when she bit her nails but when she was stressed it was nearly impossible for her to stop. She’d chewed her nails ragged while Pietro had been in hospital, nearly dying from pneumonia.

The door opened and closed again and Pietro came in, glowering like a thundercloud. She stood. “Pietro!” 

Phil came in just after him, took one look at Pietro’s dark expression and her stricken one and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Please let me know what you decide. I’ll be in my study.” 

Pietro didn’t even look at him leave the room. He hung up his coat and then grabbed his backpack, pulling out the small blue puffer and inhaling quickly before shoving it back.

“Are you okay?” Wanda asked. 

Pietro glared at her. “Shouldn’t you be cuddling with Stark?” He spoke in Sokovian.

She narrowed her eyes at him before answering in the same language. “Don’t be an ass. I was worried.” 

“Not enough to follow me outside!”

“You weren’t worried enough about me to stay—and don’t look at me like that! You walked out, when you _know_ I spent the last week with you in the hospital, terrified that you were going to die! You left! You left me…“ She started to cry.

“Hey, no. Don’t do that, little sister.” He used the Sokovian nickname he’d used for her since they were small. He dropped his backpack, went over to her and pulled her into his arms. “I will never leave you. You know that.”

She snuffled against his shirt. “You left me today.” 

“No. I just left _this_ place.” She felt him sigh. “I hate it here.”

“You want to leave?” She moved out of his arms so she could look at him.

“You know I do. Tony Stark is here.” 

“Why do you have to hate him so much?”

“You know why!”

“But if you keep hating him like this, we’ll have to leave!”

“Things were better when we were on our own!”

She stepped back. “No they weren’t. Not at all!”

“Phil understands how I feel. He said he could call Melinda. Find us another place to live.” 

“Is that the decision that Phil was asking about?”

Pietro nodded. “He offered in the car outside.”

“Would Bruce come?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned.

“I don’t want to leave Bruce.” 

“I don’t want to leave Bruce either. But he’s going to be living in New York without us. And he and Tony are brothers—“ 

“He was our brother first.” 

“But he doesn’t need us anymore.” Pietro dropped his gaze.

“You know that’s not true.” Wanda put her hand on Pietro’s chest. “He loves us as much as he ever did.”

“He seems happy enough with leaving us here while he goes away.”

“That’s not true!” She repeated. “Bruce isn’t happy to leave us. He wants us to be _safe!_ He wants us to be _here,_ where we have new clothes and enough food and where we don’t have to work all the time and none of us have to lie about our names and you’re safe and Bruce is safe and you don’t have to work so hard you almost die—“ She started crying again. 

Pietro hugged her, shushing her gently. “Little sister. Don’t cry.” 

“You almost died,” she wept. “New York was horrible and you almost died. How can you ask me to do that again?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” he said. “We’ll stay.” 

“I don’t want to leave. Please don’t make me leave.” 

“I won’t.” He held her tighter. 

“Thank you.” She sniffed. He held her long enough for her tears to slow.

They hugged for a while longer until Pietro sighed; “You’re getting crap on my shirt.” 

Wanda laughed and moved back, wiping her face with her sleeve. She had indeed left a wet mark on his shoulder. He looked at it ruefully, pulling it away from his skin. “At least we have a washing machine now,” he grinned. 

She beamed back, almost giddy with relief. 

Pietro’s expression grew serious. “I will always take care of you Wanda. I promise.”

She nodded, equally as seriously. “And I will always take care of you.” 

“We will stay,” he said, “because you want to stay. But I will _never_ be friends with Tony. _Never._ ”

“Okay,” she nodded, knowing it would be fruitless to argue with him. 

“Good,” he nodded in return. He stretched. “And now I am hungry. Maybe we can eat? Since we have so much food here…” He smirked. 

She smacked him lightly. “Not after Phil sees how much you eat!”

“Phil! I must go tell him we are staying.” He pulled her hair. “Go make me a sandwich.” 

She went to smack him again and he neatly dodged out of the way, laughing at her as he jogged towards Phil’s study.

Wanda watched him, feeling overwhelmed by how much she loved her twin and how relieved she was that he was going to stay. _Everything is okay now,_ she thought. _Everything is going to be fine._

* * *

Peggy Carter felt numb. Even though she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, the way her phone was clutched in her hand as she pressed it to her ear, it still felt like there was a disconnect between her brain and her body. Otherwise what else could explain the incomprehensible words she was hearing?

“Dead?” she repeated.

“Yes ma’am,” the calm voice said on the other end of the phone, although this time there was a small hint of apology underneath. “Your cousin and her husband were both killed when the private car they were travelling in went off the road between Sahiwal and Multan. But you know this from the paperwork we have sent?”

“I haven’t received any paperwork,” Peggy said. “If I had I very much doubt the news of my cousin’s death would be such a shock.” 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Naeem said. “Truly I am. We tried to call, but the telephone number was no longer working, so we sent notice to your address in London—“

“London! But I haven’t lived there for nearly six years!” 

There was a pause. “You’re not in London?”

“No. I’m in the United States. New York State, more specifically. Didn’t you know that when you called?” 

“I’m not that familiar with international area codes. I just assumed it was a British number.” 

“Well, it’s not,” Peggy snapped. “And that certainly explains why you’re calling at four a.m. on Monday morning.”

The jarring ring of her cell phone had woken out of a deep sleep. The only reason why she’d answered it was because she’d assumed it’d been Phil calling, even though he’d never called her this early. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Naeem said. “It is two p.m. here in Islamabad which is nine a.m. London time.”

She waved her hand dismissively even though he couldn’t see it. The horror of what Naeem had told her was beginning to sink in. “I haven’t seen Ana and her family in six years. We’ve sent emails, exchanged Christmas cards, but I never thought…”

“She and her husband were doing great work in Sahiwal. They were an integral part of Plan International and their loss is a true tragedy.” 

“I’m sure,” Peggy said. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the reality of the loss of Ana and her family roll through her. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Do you have any information about the funeral?”

“They were cremated within days of the accident. That information was contained in the package of documents we sent you—“

“Which I didn’t receive,” Peggy said sharply, “because apparently your information on next-of-kin was not entirely accurate.” 

“It was as accurate as Mrs. Jarvis allowed. Unfortunately she hadn’t updated your address after you moved.” 

“I suppose it never occurred to her she might die.” 

“As none of us truly do.”

Peggy nodded her head, contemplating that simple truth. Another tear slid down her cheek.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Naeem said softly, “I would very much appreciate the update of your contact information, I would be honoured to re-send the documents to you. I hate to bother you at such a difficult time, but we need the documents with your signature returned to us as soon as possible to ensure the smooth transfer of the inheritance.”

Peggy smiled despite her sadness. “Ana was always so thoughtful. But it shan’t be necessary. I’d like to donate whatever money there might be to Plan International to carry on her good work. Can you send me papers for that? I’ll give you my email—“

“But—but you can’t do that!”

Peggy paused. “She’s leaving the money to me. Why ever not?”

“Because the money’s not yours,” Naeem said. “It belongs to her son.” 

“Vision is alive?” Peggy gasped. Naeem had never mentioned her second cousin directly but she’d assumed he’d died alongside his parents. 

“He was at his boarding school in Islamabad when the accident occurred.” There was a pause. “But if you didn’t know that…”

“How could I possibly know that?” Peggy exclaimed. “This is the first I’ve heard about all of it!” She sagged down onto the corner of her couch, relief flooding through her. She’d last seen Vision when he was ten. Ana, her husband Edwin, and their son Vision had come to London from Pakistan for Christmas before Peggy had left for the States. She remembered him as a bright, outgoing and happy child equally good speaking both Urdu and English with an accent even more proper than her own. “But he’s alive? Oh thank God.”

“He is not with you.” 

Peggy stood back up, alarmed at how Naeem’s sentence was so clearly not a question. “What? Why would he be with me?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis named you as the guardian for their son. His school arranged for him to attend his parents’ funeral in Sahiwal and then they were to send him to London to be with you. It was his parents’ explicit instructions. Did the school not call to let you know?” 

Peggy’s sense of shock deepened. She had no idea that she was meant to be the guardian of a teenager. “I haven’t had a London telephone number for six years.”

She could hear Naeem’s sharp intake of breath. “Mrs. Jarvis’ housekeeper provided me with this number after I couldn’t reach you in London. But I have no idea what the school might have done.” 

“I haven’t heard anything.” Peggy clutched the phone, shock immediately changing to concern. “Surely they wouldn’t have sent him without confirming there was someone waiting for his arrival.” 

“Of course not,” Naeem agreed immediately, but Peggy could hear the uncertainty in his tone.

“Are you telling me that his _school_ would’ve put a sixteen-year-old boy on a plane to London without ensuring there was someone there to meet him on the other end?”

“I know they would not,” Naeem said. “But I think I need to make a telephone call.”

“Oh my God,” Peggy breathed. “You think the school put him on a plane to London without anyone knowing.” 

“I’m sure everything is fine. But as Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis’ legal representative I will feel much better as soon as Vision’s location is confirmed.” 

“How long?” Peggy said. “I mean, how long ago would they have done this?” 

“Thursday. They would’ve put him on a plane Thursday morning. He should have arrived in London Thursday afternoon.”

“But it’s Monday!” Peggy nearly shouted. “That’s four days!” Her mind was racing. Peggy’s mother was still alive, but she’d moved from London to a little seaside cottage in Dorset to be closer to her sister, Vision’s grandmother. Ana’s husband had been an only child whose parents were deceased. Peggy’s older brother Michael was married and had moved to Canada two years ago. Unless Ana had told Vision where his relatives were in the world, it would have been difficult – if not impossible – for Vision to locate anyone who could care for him when he arrived at the airport. 

“I’m sure he’s still safely at the school, waiting for further instructions,” Naeem said. Peggy knew he was trying to be reassuring, but his concern was far too obvious. “I promise I will call you again as soon as I know anything.”

They exchanged contact information. “Thank you,” Peggy said firmly. “Please have him call me as soon as he’s found.” She hung up the phone and sagged down onto her couch, her mind filled with images of the sunny, blond boy she’d last seen in London. She imagined that boy stepping off a plane at Heathrow, eyes searching for someone, anyone at all that he knew. What would he do when there was no one there? 

She clenched her fists, longing to do something – anything – to help the situation. She debated calling her mother to see if she’d heard anything but quickly changed her mind. Her mother and her aunt were both widows, prone to worrying and in poor health. They wouldn’t be able to do anything but fret and they would’ve certainly have contacted her already if Vision had suddenly arrived on their doorstep. She would have to trust Naeem to find out what happened to Vision, and that he’d contact her as soon as he had. 

She’d loved Ana and Peggy knew she’d barely begun to even process her loss. The idea of losing Vision as well was impossible to contemplate.

She picked up her phone again, pulling up Phil’s number almost without thinking before she cancelled the call. It wasn’t yet five a.m. and even Phil wouldn’t be starting his day for at least another hour. Phil might be her friend as well as her employer but it wouldn’t do to call him quite so early, especially as there would be very little he could do to help the situation beyond listen to her concerns. Perhaps once she’d heard from Naeem she could call Phil and get his help. 

At the very least he should be an excellent resource for how to raise a teenager. Peggy shook her head. Plenty of time to worry about the logistics of that once Vision was actually found. 

As soon as she heard from Vision she’d book her flight either to Islamabad or London and she’d bring him home. “Please be safe,” she whispered to the empty room. “Please.”

* * *

“You _have_ been in a superstore before.”

Pietro made a face at Natasha. “I came to the States three years ago. Besides there are big stores in Sokovia.” His expression darkened. “Or at least there was.”

It was late Monday afternoon. Phil had dropped Natasha, Clint and Pietro off at the Target on his way to visit Jonas at the hospital. Wanda, curious about the injured boy, had asked to go with him and Phil had readily agreed. Bucky was at home, waiting to Skype with Steve, apparently even one night apart was going to be too much for them now that their relationship was perfect again.

She shrugged. “You were just looking at everything like you’d never seen it before.” She’d noticed the way his eyes were moving around the school supplies section of the Poughkeepsie Target, wary and hungry all at once. She remembered feeling like that too, when Phil had first taken her to buy clothes. She’d wanted everything and was absolutely positive she couldn’t have any of it. 

She’d tried on only the cheapest clothes she could find until Phil had practically dragged her to the trendy teen section and told her he wasn’t leaving until she’d chosen a whole wardrobe. 

It looked like she might need to do the same for Pietro to make sure he actually bought something. 

Pietro picked up a backpack, scowled at the price and put it back down. 

“Here,” she handed him a backpack designed to look like the breastplate of a Stormtrooper. 

He held it like it might explode. “What is this for?”

“It’s a backpack. You put things in it for school,” Clint explained helpfully as Pietro rolled his eyes. He held a park of sneakers out to Natasha. “What do you think of these?”

“Boring.” Natasha dismissed the black-and-red shoes. “Don’t they have anything purple?”

“Only in the girls’ section.” 

“But purple’s your favourite colour.”

“But—“

“Colours are for people, not genders,” Natasha quoted Ms. Carter, their humanities instructor. “Wear what you like.” 

Clint brightened. “Yeah!” he dashed off.

Pietro looked at her askance. “He’ll be made fun of for wearing girls’ shoes.” 

“We’re homeschooled.” Natasha picked up a trapper-keeper which looked like Darth Vader’s armour. “Here.” 

Pietro took the binder. “I’m sensing a theme.” 

“You look like a Star Wars geek,” Natasha shrugged. “With the white hair you look like Ben Kenobi when he’s old.”

Pietro smirked. “I am so happy you noticed my hair.” He turned the trapper-keeper around. “What is this?”

“It’s a trapper-keeper.” Natasha took it from him and showed him how it opened and where his papers would go. “They’re really popular with all the cool kids.” 

“I have never seen one.”

“Didn’t you go to high school in New York City? I thought all the kids there were cool.”

Pietro shrugged with fake nonchalance. “I was too busy to pay attention to what the other kids used.”

Natasha knew that was code for: “I didn’t have any friends.” It made sense. He and Wanda had to stay under the radar because they were underage runaways and they thought Bruce had accidentally murdered their abusive foster father. There’d be no way that Pietro could’ve risked getting close to someone who might’ve wanted to follow him home. Her mother had been a prostitute before she died. She knew what that felt like, too.

“Well now you’ll be the coolest kid in class.” She slapped a pencil case into his hand that had a print of the original 1977 film poster. 

“I don’t think I like Star Wars this much.” 

She grinned. “I do.” 

“You will not be in class with me.” 

“But now I’ll be able to think about all your cool Star Wars stuff while I’m at home, doing my school work on the couch in my pajamas…”

He laughed. “You really like learning at home so much?”

Natasha shrugged. “Our teachers are cool and we can learn at our own speed. And if we’re getting too bored we’ll go do some martial arts or go for a horseback ride or a hike out in the woods. It’s way better than being stuck in a classroom all day.”

“But you only have your brothers for friends. What about meeting new people?”

Natasha thought about the parade of men who used to go through her mother’s apartment, and how she’d have to hide in the closet if the man insisted on using the bedroom instead of the living room where her mother slept. “New people are overrated.” 

“I like new people,” Pietro said. “And I like to be able to compete in sports, and complain about the food in the cafeteria with my friends...” His expression was wistful and Natasha knew he was describing the high school experience he wished he’d had. 

“I’m sure it’ll be just like that.” Personally she thought he was making a mistake. Dr. Foster, Ms. Carter and Mr. Odinson were awesome teachers and she loved how safe it felt to study at home. She picked up a pencil case that looked like a long Totoro. “For Wanda.”

Pietro eyed it. “What is this creature?”

“For a guy who’s been living in New York you don’t know a lot about popular culture,” Natasha took it back from him. “This is Totoro. He’s a giant woodland creature from a Japanese animated film called ‘My Neighbour Totoro.’ Wanda will love him.” 

Pietro’s mouth tightened. “We did not see many movies in New York.” 

It was more code for “we were poor as shit,” and Natasha felt a pang of sympathy. “Get it,” she said. “Wanda will love him. Trust me.” 

Pietro eyed her dubiously. “I was going to get her a pink one with a pony on it.” 

Natasha smirked. “You are a sadistic bastard.” 

Pietro laughed out loud. “That’s true. She would hate it!”

Natasha laughed too. “No wonder she asked me not to let you choose her pencil case!”

“She hates pink,” Pietro explained. “Red is her favourite colour.” 

“Get her Totoro.” Natasha gestured at the pencil case. “We’ll watch the movie this weekend. She’ll love it. Trust me.” 

“Okay.” Pietro looked unconvinced but added it to his basket. Natasha looked to where he’d put the pencil case. There was now only one other item in the basket. She looked up at him. “Where’s the backpack and the trapper-keeper?”

“They were too expensive.” Pietro was frowning at the Star Wars pencil case. Anything with ‘Star Wars’ on it was twice as much money as the plain, boring items. 

“Do you like them?”

Pietro raised one shoulder. “That does not matter.” 

“Of course it matters,” Natasha said gently. “You should get what you like.” 

“I have no money and it is not fair for Phil to buy things that are so expensive.” 

“Phil loves buying us stuff,” Natasha said decisively. She picked up the Star Wars backpack and the trapper-keeper and put them back into the basket.

“But I cannot pay for these!”

Natasha put her hands on her hips. “Look, I get it. I used to be poor. I know it messes with your head and makes you think you don’t deserve anything, but it’s not true. You need things for school that you like and are proud of, and Phil wants us to be happy. So, suck it up and get the Star Wars backpack.” 

Pietro looked at her for a moment, clearly coming to a decision. “I prefer the orange one. For the Rebellion.” 

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Natasha grinned at him and exchanged the Stormtrooper one for an orange one that was designed to look like an X-Wing pilot’s jumpsuit. 

“They are so expensive,” Pietro mumbled. 

“We’re worth it,” Natasha said with confidence. “Or at least that’s what Phil’s always saying, and he doesn’t lie, so…” 

Pietro looked at her through his lashes. “Phil really doesn’t mind paying for these things?”

“Trust me.” Natasha put her hand on his shoulder. He nodded, still looking unsure.

Just then Clint reappeared with a shoe box that had a cartoon picture of a young woman in a purple skin-tight outfit with a matching bow and arrow. “Hawkeye shoes!” Clint crowed, showing Natasha the box. 

“So cool!” Natasha enthused. She whipped the cover off the box and pulled out the shiny purple hi-tops with black Velcro straps and a white and purple target on the side. 

“I know, right?” Clint beamed at her. “I love Hawkeye!”

“These are awesome,” Natasha agreed. “I wish I needed a new pair of shoes.” 

“Why don’t you just get a pair?” Pietro said. 

Natasha slid a glance at him. It was a test. He wanted to know if what she’d said about Phil was true. 

“I could,” she mused. “I know Phil wouldn’t mind.”

“Phil doesn’t mind if you buy things you don’t need?”

“Naw, Phil wouldn’t care. He just wants us to be happy,” Clint said, unconsciously echoing what Natasha had just said earlier. 

“It’s because he gets money from the government for taking care of you.” Pietro said it like he’d just solved a mystery. “No wonder he has so many children.” 

“That money goes into our educational funds,” Natasha said. “Phil only uses a small portion for our food.” At Pietro’s skeptical look she continued: “He has savings and a pension from the NYPD. He was expecting to spend money on us.” She was exasperated by Pietro’s continued disbelief. “He knew what he was getting into.” 

“Plus we can get jobs when we’re older if we want,” Clint said. “Steve got a job at the VA in town in the summer, and Bucky helps at the garage sometimes. And Tony helps with money, too.”

Pietro sneered. “Blood money.” 

Clint bristled. “Stop that! Tony’s my brother!”

Natasha shoved them both. “Not here and not on my time. Pietro, you keep your anti-Tony propaganda to yourself.” She glared at him.

“Fine.” 

There was an awkward pause. Purposely Natasha took the box of sneakers out of Clint’s hands. “These really are cool. Maybe I should get some.” 

Clint looked at her. “I thought you already had four pairs of shoes.” 

“But I don’t have purple Hawkeye hi-tops.”

“You could borrow mine.” Clint looked absolutely delighted at the idea and Natasha felt her heart melt.

“I adore you,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him. Clint kissed her back enthusiastically, the box of shoes getting squished between them.

“Get a room,” Pietro groaned.

“Sorry,” Clint blushed.

Natasha just grinned. 

Pietro rolled his eyes. “I need to get some paper and pens.” 

They moved towards the stationary section. “Are you excited to go to high school tomorrow?” Clint asked, obviously trying to smooth things over.

Pietro smiled at him. “Yes, I think so.” He picked up a pad of lined paper then put it back down when he realized they didn’t have holes punched in them. “I just wish I didn’t have to wait until I could join the track team.” 

“Is that what the doctor said?” Clint asked.

Pietro nodded. “I can go to school but no exercise more strenuous than fast walking for another two weeks until my lungs are fully healed. And I must keep taking the puffer.” He made a face.

“At least you’re better. You could be like that guy Jonas.” Clint’s face fell. “Phil said he might die.” 

Natasha’s chest hurt looking at Clint’s expression. Her boyfriend was so incredibly sensitive to how other people felt. He hated it when people were hurt. 

Natasha took his hand. “He won’t die,” she said with surety. “He’s young and strong. He’ll heal. Like you did.” 

“My brother beat me really badly,” Clint said in response to Pietro’s questioning look. “I don’t remember much, but Phil told me I was found in a snowbank. I nearly died.” 

Pietro blinked. “Your brother did this? That is terrible!”

Clint nodded. “Barney. He’s uh. He’s not a very nice person.” 

“I wish I had been there.” Natasha squeezed Clint’s hand. “I would’ve killed him.” 

Clint blinked. “Killing is wrong.” 

“Not for people you love,” Natasha said with total conviction. 

“I agree.” She and Pietro shared a moment of complete Eastern-European understanding. 

“But it’s a mute point anyway,” Clint said. “Barney’s in jail so no one needs to kill anyone.” 

“Moot point,” Natasha corrected him. “It’s a moot point.”

“But you can’t hear a mute point, so it doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “That’s the expression, right?”

“I don’t think this home schooling is working as well as you think it does,” Pietro said to Natasha. She burst out laughing.

* * *

“Who do you think he is?” Wanda asked softly.

Phil and Wanda were in Jonas’ room the hospital’s step-down unit. Much to Dr. Cho’s delight, Jonas had responded extremely well to treatment and they’d been able to move him out of the ICU. His back, torso and especially his right side was still a mess of infected cuts and bruises from his forced tumble, and his right wrist was broken from where he first impacted the ground. His cast was just dull white plaster, not the colourful fibreglass worn by both Tony and Bruce for their recent breaks. His skin was still mottled with smears of blood. 

Wanda had been studying Jonas’ face as he slept; the long, sharp angles of his features; his high forehead and mop of short blond hair, darkened with blood and grease. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so light they were hard to see against his pale skin. She imagined his eyes would be equally as light, a pale blue the same colour as Sokovia’s sky in winter.

“I have no idea,” Phil said just as quietly. “Steve said he sounded British when he spoke, but that’d be hard to tell from only a few words.” 

“He looks British,” Wanda said. 

“Tall and thin?” Phil smiled. 

Wanda smiled back. “And so pale. We used to joke in Sokovia that British people would burst into flames in the sun, like vampires.”

Phil laughed. “I won’t tell Peggy you said that.” 

“Ms. Carter? Our teacher?”

“Yes. She’s been off these past few days, but I’m hoping you’ll get to meet her soon.”

Wanda nodded. “Natasha likes her a lot.” 

“Natasha likes all the teachers, but I’m pretty sure Peggy is her favourite.” He smiled at her again. “I’m very glad that the two of you are getting along.”

“Natasha is very easy to get along with. I know Pietro likes her, too.”

“I figured when he agreed to go shopping with her and Clint.” 

“Pietro likes Clint as well. And Bucky, and Steve. He likes just about everyone.”

“It’s okay Wanda,” Phil said gently. “I understand why he’s having difficulty with Tony. His father killed your parents. It makes sense that Pietro might be having a hard time with that.”

Wanda felt something inside her uncoil and she sagged a little in relief as she absorbed what Phil had said. It must have shown on her face because Phil was looking at her kindly. “You were worried I was going to send Pietro away.” 

“I was,” she responded honestly. “Tony is your son and we are just guests—“

“You’re not guests,” Phil interrupted. “You’re my children now, as much as Tony and the rest. Yes I want Pietro and Tony to get along, but I also know that Pietro needs time for that to happen. As long as he isn’t making Tony feel unsafe he’s got that time.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said seriously. “I promise I will make sure Pietro behaves himself when Tony is around. You will have no reason to want us to leave--”

“You won’t have to leave,” Phil said. “Pietro may need to change his behaviour towards Tony sooner than later, but you’ll never have to leave. That’s my promise.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said again. “Truly.”

“It’s my pleasure to give you and your brothers a safe home.”

Wanda smiled gratefully before she turned to look at Jonas again. He’d shifted slightly in his sleep, causing his lips to part like he’d just been kissed. Wanda blushed when she realized what she’d just thought. _He’s unconscious!_ she scolded herself. 

“After Dr. Cho’s glowing report on his progress I was hoping he’d be awake by now,” Phil mused. “I’d really like to know who he is so we can reunite him with his family.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t have any family,” Wanda said, still tracing the lines of Jonas’ face with her eyes.

“It’s true that there hasn’t been a missing person’s report matching his description yet.” Phil frowned. “That’s unusual for someone this young.”

“Children went missing in the refugee camp all the time,” Wanda said. She reached over and picked up Jonas’ left hand, pleased to feel how warm it was. “Pietro and I made friends with the camp administrators so they’d look out for us. It’s why it only took two years for us to come to the U.S.”

She heard Phil’s sharp intake of breath. “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you there.”

“I’m glad for that. No one should have to know what a refugee camp is like.” 

“My friend Sam is a social worker who’s spent time with all my children,” Phil said. “He’s an excellent listener and very good at helping to ease the pain of the kind of things you and the others have lived through. I’d like to have you and Pietro sit down with him at some point, to maybe talk about some of your more difficult experiences.”

Wanda nodded without looking at Phil. She knew if he looked at her with sympathy right now she’d probably start to cry. Talking to Sam would be difficult, but it might be nice to finally tell someone what had happened. She’d never wanted to burden Bruce with it. He was dealing with problems of his own so she’d only ever told him things that didn’t hurt. The one time she and Pietro had tried to discuss it, they’d both ended up in tears and by silent agreement had never spoken about it again. “I would like that.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Phil said decisively. He stood. “And now I need a coffee. Can I get you anything?”

She thought wistfully of a hot chocolate, but Phil had already given her so much. “No thank you.”

“You’re going to be just like the rest of them, aren’t you?” He said fondly. “I’m going to get you a grapefruit juice and make you drink it unless you tell me what you’d actually like.” 

Wanda laughed. “While I actually don’t mind grapefruit juice, I would prefer a hot chocolate.” He smile grew uncertain. “If that’s okay?”

“Getting you a hot drink would be my pleasure,” Phil said with complete sincerity. He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to text Natasha to try to encourage her to get the boys to move faster. While I’m very glad Jonas is doing better, watching him sleep is not quite the interaction with him I was hoping for.”

Wanda shrugged and turned back to look at Jonas again. “I do not mind.”

“I’m sure he’s happy for the company,” Phil said. “Back soon.” He left.

“Who are you?” Wanda asked Jonas as soon as she was alone. She squeezed his lax hand gently, feeling the bones beneath the skin. “Why isn’t your family looking for you? Why are you alone?”

* * *

Phil put both the take-out cups he was carrying down on a nearby table as his phone rang. 

“Coulson.”

“Phil? It’s Peggy. I need to be away for a week or so. My cousin is missing and I’m flying to London tonight—“ 

“Wait,” Phil interrupted her. She sounded nearly frantic, which was a word he’d thought he’d never use to describe the usually unflappable teacher. “You’re flying to London?”

“Yes,” she took a breath. “My cousin died recently and she made me guardian of her son. He flew to London last week, probably to find me, but he’s gone missing—“ She started to cry.

Phil paused in shock. He couldn’t remember Peggy ever crying before. “That’s terrible,” he said finally. “That sounds just awful. Of course. Take as much time as you need. Is there anything I can do?”

“Unless you happen to know the chief of Metropolitan Police, probably not.” 

“I don’t,” he admitted, “but I’m sure my friend Nick has contacts there, he’s my former boss from the NYPD? Do you want me to ask him?”

“I remember you saying,” Peggy took a breath and the hint of steel he was used to hearing in her voice was back. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would very much appreciate knowing whom to contact when I arrive.”

“I can do that,” Phil said with confidence. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m happy to help.” Phil lowered his voice. “What happened?”

Phil stayed quiet while Peggy told him how she’d learned of her cousins’ death on the road in Sahiwal, and that her second cousin was now her ward. She told him about not receiving any notification about their deaths until after her cousin had gone missing. “He was meant to have arrived in London on Thursday,” Peggy explained, “but he hasn’t contacted any of our family in England.” Her no-nonsense tone slipped. “I don’t know where he is.”

Phil felt his Detective brain turn on while Peggy spoke. “It doesn’t make sense that a sixteen-year-old boy would travel to a country that he’s barely visited and just disappear.”

“I know,” Peggy agreed readily. “He’s always been such a clever young man. I can’t imagine him just taking off like this, without any sort of plan.”

Phil wrinkled his brow. “How do you know he didn’t have a plan?”

“He _planned_ to disappear?” 

“Maybe, but since he just lost his family I’m guessing not. You said before that you thought he may have been looking for you?”

“Yes. My brother and I are his favourite relatives. But Michael’s in Canada and I’m here, and he knew that.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Of course,” Peggy said immediately. “We email each other fairly regularly. I sent him a Christmas present from my current address this year.” 

“So he knew you wouldn’t be in London and he went there anyway.” Phil frowned. “And he hasn’t written you?”

“Nothing for at least three months, but I’m used to big gaps in his messages. I checked, but my brother hasn’t heard from him either,” There were tears in her voice. “I would’ve come to get him if I’d known.”

“I know,” Phil soothed. He knew how well Peggy treated her students and how much she cared for them. He was sure she’d be exactly the same with her cousin. “That’s so strange,” Phil continued. “He flies to London, knowing that his favourite cousins aren’t there and he doesn’t even try to contact you. Why would he do that?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he tried to go to Dorset to find my mother?” Her voice quavered. “Perhaps something terrible happened to him on the way?”

“That’s certainly something that Nick’s connections could help with.” Phil wished he could sound more reassuring but Peggy’s concern was all too possible. The boy could’ve headed off somewhere in order to meet up with relatives who wouldn’t have known he was coming. Anything could’ve happened to him. “So when did you get your last email from him?”

“It would’ve been right before the summer recess. He tends to write me more regularly when he’s at his boarding school in Islamabad. I hardly hear from him over the summer unless he tacks on a note with one of Ana’s emails.” Her voice broke. “Although I won’t be receiving any more emails from her, will I?”

“I’m so sorry,” Phil said. 

“Thank you,” Peggy snuffled. 

Phil blinked as an idea formed. “Wait. You said he only wrote you from his mother’s email address in the summer. Did he only have one email address?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said slowly and Phil could hear her thinking the same thing that he just did. “Oh my God. What if he wrote me with a different address? I’ve never checked my spam folder!” 

“Check it. Check it now,” Phil said. “And please let me know whatever you find.”

“Absolutely,” Peggy confirmed. “And Phil? Thank you.”

“Anything to help you find—“ Phil realized he didn’t know. “What’s his name?”

“Vision Jarvis,” Peggy said. “Vision is rather gothic, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Phil smiled. “That sounds like a hard name to go to school with.” 

“I’m sure. I think he uses his middle name when he’s not with family.”

“Makes sense,” Phil said. “Good luck.”

“Ta,” She said in impeccable English style, and hung up.

Phil pocketed his phone and picked up the cups, hoping Wanda wouldn’t mind her chocolate now being a bit more on the warm side of hot. He shook his head thinking of Peggy’s cousin’s situation, and how he might be somewhere in England, lost and alone. It made him think of Jonas, lying injured and unconscious upstairs, and he frowned. _I hope Vision is better off than Jonas,_ he thought, and headed towards the elevator.

* * *

Pietro picked up his tray from the serving line and turned to face the rest of the cafeteria.

He squared his shoulders and elevated his head to hide how uncertain he felt. It was a trick he’d learned very early on in the refugee camp in Latvaria. Looking confident had meant that the older boys had left him alone; looking confident had meant that he hadn’t seemed like easy prey for the Latvarian soldiers guarding the camp. 

Purposely he strode towards an empty seat as if he’d always intended to sit by himself. It was his first day at Erik Lehnsherr High School, and even though it was only early October, it was obvious by the way he was being watched as he walked through that his newness was being noted. Pietro plastered an enigmatic smile on his face and pretended to ignore all the questioning looks being thrown his way. He’d faced way worse in his life than curious and judgemental high schoolers. They could all go to hell.

“Hey Pietro!”

Pietro turned towards the sound of his name. A girl was waving to him from one of the tables. She was sitting with two guys, neither of whom looked particularly thrilled that she was calling him over. _Fuck you,_ he thought and went towards them. 

Pietro nodded at her and her two companions as he slid his tray onto the table. “It’s Mary-Sue, right? You’re in my English class.” It wasn’t a question. He remembered her for how beautiful she was and how smart her answers had been. It was a pretty awesome combination.

The girl grimaced. Her dark hair was down to her shoulders in front and short in back and dyed dark blond underneath. She rolled her eyes, tempting as chocolate. “Please, for the love of God call me Skye. Mary-Sue is like, the worst name ever.”

“I like it,” the boy sitting on her left said. He’d moved his chair slightly closer to her as Pietro sat down and that, plus the glare from his intense brown eyes made it clear what he thought of Pietro’s intrusion. 

“Well she don’t Grant,” the other boy said. He was sitting on Skye’s other side. His hair was a dark brown mess that looked like he’d gelled it straight up rather than getting it cut. He shook his head and then flashed Pietro an engaging smile. “Brock.”

“Pietro,” Pietro said. He nodded at Grant and then grinned at Skye before picking up his knife and fork. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“No big,” she smiled back, looking sweet and impish all at once. “I’m just sorry we didn’t get to you before you committed yourself to the mystery meat.” 

Pietro looked down at the lump of brown food covered in light brown gravy and shrugged. “This is food, yes? I have eaten much worse.”

“Nice that you can buy cafeteria food, rich boy,” Grant said. He took a bite of his sandwich, glaring at Pietro the whole time.

“It was not so expensive…” Pietro took in the brown bagged lunches the three people had at the table and his words died off. He swallowed. 

“Too expensive for us group-home types,” Skye sighed dramatically. “And really, I am _so_ jealous of that over-cooked meatloaf.” She took a bite of her sandwich and smirked at Pietro.

“I was given the money.” Pietro hadn’t thought much about it when Phil handed him the ten dollars this morning, too excited about the idea of going to school. But now he realized that he was costing Phil yet more money. He was getting further into debt with no idea how he’d ever pay it back. 

“Rich daddy?” Brock asked, then at Pietro’s expression he laughed. “Rich _sugar_ daddy!”

“It is from my foster father,” Pietro said stiffly. 

“Lucky,” Skye made a face at her sandwich, but then shrugged with an enviable practicality and took another bite. 

“Must be nice,” Grant said again. “Rich foster family. That’s real good.” His tone made the words anything but complimentary.

“Lay off,” Brock made a face at Grant. “You’re just jealous that he’s got bank.”

“Money’s just capitalist bullshit.” Grant glared at Brock but then turned back to Pietro. “Where you from?” His eyes were still far too intense for a mere high school boy. Pietro recognized that type of look. He was being assessed for his threat potential by someone used to finding threats. 

“New York City,” Pietro smiled at Grant in a way that didn’t look all that friendly. He was used to assessing threats as well, and Grant’s whole demeanour certainly qualified. 

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “You know that’s not what I mean.” 

Pietro purposely took a large bite of mystery meat and chewed. It wasn’t too bad, actually. “So what do you mean?” He made sure that Grant had a great view of the inside of his mouth. 

“Where you’re _from,_ ” Grant said. “Because you don’t sound American.”

“I am American!” Pietro bristled. “The fact I have an accent—“

“Don’t listen to him,” Skye cut in. “Grant gets nervous around new people.” She took another bite of her sandwich.

“I’m not nervous! I just wanted to know where he’s from! Since when is that a fucking crime?” 

“Jesus,” Brock rolled his eyes. “Why you got to be so hostile with everyone, Grant?” He turned to grin at Pietro. “Grant’s a bit anti-social. We do our best, but…”

Grant turned his narrowed eyes to Brock. “Fuck off.” 

Brock laughed. “See what I mean?”

Pietro chuckled at Grant’s glower. “Yes, he is not so friendly.” 

“I just wanted to know where you were from!” Grant repeated. “Why is it such a big fucking deal?” For a moment Grant’s hard eyes softened with genuine bewilderment. He truly didn’t understand how rude his question was or why he was being attacked for it. 

“I’m originally from Sokovia,” Pietro relented. “I moved here three years ago with my sister.” 

“Sokovia?” Skye’s intelligent eyes flashed to his face. “Didn’t they have a civil war or something?”

“Yes.” Pietro focussed on his meal. 

“Oh my God,” Skye breathed. “That’s why you’ve got a foster father. You’re like a war child, aren’t you?”

Pietro stopped with another piece of meat half-way to his mouth. “What?”

“A refugee,” Skye said. “A child refugee. You must have been, like, ten or eleven when the war broke out. Did your parents send you here to keep you safe?”

“My parents are dead.” Pietro put his fork down, his stomach suddenly too tight to eat. 

“I’m so sorry,” Skye said after a moment. “That’s really sad.” 

Pietro tilted his head to acknowledge her words. He took a drink of his water to try to ease the tightness in his throat. 

“How’d they die?” 

“Grant!” Brock reached across the table to smack the side of Grant’s head. 

Grant caught his wrist, bending his hand back just enough so that Brock winced. “Don’t.”

“Then don’t ask stupid fucking questions,” Brock moved his wrist in a forceful gesture that broke Grant’s grip. It was obvious that both young men had had some kind of fight training. “You want to talk about your childhood at Saint Agnes? Or why you’re in a group home with me and Skye?”

“Shut up!’ 

“Make me!” 

“Both of you quit it!” Skye yelled at them. “You know what’ll happen if you get into even one more fight!” She slammed her hands down on the table and Pietro was instantly reminded of Natasha and the way she kept stopping him and Clint from going at each other. It looked exhausting to have to keep Brock and Grant in check and Pietro suddenly felt embarrassed at how difficult he might’ve been making things for Natasha.

She turned to Pietro. “Please excuse my friends. They’re not used to having to act normal.” 

“It’s not me with the problem,” Brock mumbled.

“I’m sorry Skye,” Grant looked up at her through his lashes. 

“It’s okay,” she patted him on the shoulder but she was looking over at Pietro so she missed the completely adoring look Grant gave her. Pietro didn’t. “I hope you’ll ignore the boys and sit with us at lunch again? I’d really like to hear more about you.” There was no mistaking the flirty nature of her smile, nor the way that Pietro returned it.

Grant clearly didn’t miss it either. “He doesn’t want to sit with us again.” 

“I think he does,” Brock was watching Skye and Pietro just as closely. 

“I think I will,” Pietro agreed, holding Skye’s gaze. 

“I think you should.” Skye stood and started gathering her lunch items, stuffing the garbage into the bag. “The next period’s in less than five so I suggest you choke down your lunch so you won’t be late.” Her smile was full of promise. “Maybe I’ll see you in Mr. McCoy’s science class.”

“Maybe,” Pietro grinned. He actually did have that science class next. The prospect of spending more time with Skye was certainly enticing. “Maybe you should save me a seat.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” With one last flirtatious look she sauntered off towards the bussing area. 

“I sit beside you in McCoy’s class!” Grant exclaimed as he trailed after her.

Brock hadn’t moved. “Hey. You should totally meet us after school. We hang out on the North West corner opposite the buses.” He stood and clapped Pietro on the shoulder. “Us orphans got to stick together, right?” He winked and headed towards the door, leaving his crumpled up lunch bag on the table.

Pietro started wolfing down his lunch. Grant may not have been so friendly but Skye and Brock certainly seemed nice. He’d only spent one day in high school and already he had two friends. He grinned to himself. Not so bad for a Sokovian war child with an accent. His sister would be so jealous.

* * *

“Are you leaving?”

Peggy looked up from stuffing her suitcase to see the stricken face of Angie, her girlfriend, standing beside the bed. Angie’s hair was up, the red-brown curls pinned back in a fetching 40s style required by her job as a waitress at an old timey diner. If it was any other circumstance Peggy would have indulged herself with slowly taking every pin out one-by-one and letting that incredible hair fall past Angie’s shoulders. 

But this wasn’t any other circumstance. 

“Yes,” Peggy responded as she jammed her sweater deeper into her luggage. 

“Why?”

The plaintive note in Angie’s voice made Peggy look up sharply. Angie’s blue eyes were red-rimmed and shiny with tears.

“Oh no! Oh my darling!” Peggy stood and immediately went to her girlfriend and pulled her into her arms. “I’m not leaving you, sweetheart. I promise.”

Angie hugged her tightly and then pushed back, smacking her hard on the chest. “Frighten me to death, why don’tcha!” She wiped at her eyes with the side of her hand. “Jesus.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Peggy took Angie’s hand. “I never meant—“

Angie waved her off. “It’s okay. Just gave me a fright, is all.” She frowned as she took in Peggy’s disorganized packing. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard from him?”

Peggy shook her head. “No. It’s been over a day and no response.” She’d done as Phil suggested and found an email from Vision in her spam folder. She’d immediately written him back, but so far she’d received no word. 

“I can’t believe all he said was that he was flying to London,” Angie shook her head. “You’d think he’d’ve said _something_ about what he meant to do when he was there!”

“His letter sounded so sad,” Peggy hugged her folded shirt to her chest, remembering the short email. “It was like he hadn’t fully absorbed what was going on.”

“Probably in shock,” Angie agreed. She went to the closet they shared and pulled a battered suitcase out from the back. “So, when are we leaving?”

Peggy stopped packing. “We?”

“Yeah,” Angie looked over her shoulder from where she was pulling shirts off hangers in the closet. “Do you think I’ll need a dress shirt? Probably not.” She hung it back up.

“You can’t come to London with me!”

Angie looked at her. “And why not? You put me on the no fly list when I wasn’t looking?”

“It’s not that.” Peggy dropped the jeans she was holding and walked over to Angie. “But you have auditions coming up this week, and the diner! They’ll never let you go.” 

Angie waved her hand dismissively. “They’ll be more auditions. And if my job wants to fire me for going to London with my best girl? Let them. I know what my priorities are.” 

“Oh Angie,” Peggy sighed and hugged her close. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“You really think I’d let you go to England to find your cousin all by yourself? No way.” She left unspoken the fear that Peggy knew they both shared; that they would discover something terrible had happened to Vision when they arrived and Peggy would need Angie’s support. “And besides,” Angie said as she gently stroked Peggy’s cheek with her thumb, “We’re going to be his guardians. I think it might be important for him to know I care.”

“I love you.” Peggy leaned in and kissed her, letting all her worry and fear for Vision fade for one precious moment as she concentrated on the feel of Angie in her arms. After far too short a time she reluctantly broke the kiss. “I love you,” she said again. 

“Right back atcha, English.” Angie gently tapped Peggy’s nose.

Peggy smiled. “And because I am the well-employed teacher and you are the starving actor, I will buy your ticket.”

Angie grinned broadly. “Is first class too much to ask for?” 

Peggy laughed, something that she hadn’t been sure she’d still be capable of after all the grief and fear of the last few days. “I adore you.” 

“I adore you more,” Angie returned her smile. “Now let’s get packing.”

* * *

He woke up crying. 

He had been dreaming about his parents; a dream coloured by the brilliant light of their home in Sahiwal, where lizards ran up the walls and bright purple rhododendrons grew outside underneath the windows. It was a warm day, like almost every summer day he’d spent in Pakistan since his family had moved there when he’d turned ten years old. His mother was dressed in a pink and yellow salwar kameez, her head loosely covered by a yellow scarf with embroidered pink flowers. His father wore a white Punjabi suit in loose-fitting cotton. They were exactly as Jonas remembered them. Shining and happy and completely in love. His father held his mother’s hand, smiling.

And then the image had changed. The house grew empty and dark, the small space increasing until Jonas was running down dark hallway after dark hallway, calling for his mother and father, seeing glimpses of his father’s shirt or his mother’s scarf disappearing up ahead, but it was like he was running through water and he couldn’t catch them. He called for them, but they never slowed down and he never reached them.

Finally he stopped, standing in the middle of what should have been their cozy living-room. But now it was a vast space, dark and foreboding. 

“Mom!” he shouted. “Dad!”

There was no answer. 

And then the crushing ache of his loss crashed through him, filling up every centimetre of his body with the agony of grief. He fell to his hands and knees, tears running unchecked down his face. Even in his dream, he remembered.

His eyes snapped open, sobs racking through him, his cheeks wet from his tears. 

“Its okay, it’s okay.” Someone was talking to him and wiping the tears from his face. They were speaking English, not Urdu. He didn’t know them. He didn’t know where he _was_. Panicked, he went to bat away their hand.

Pain roared through his right side and he fell back, gasping.

“Stay still!” The voice commanded him, and he turned his head to see. 

There was a young woman standing by his bed. She had long wavy dark brown hair, and large green eyes set into a heart-shaped face. Her perfect mouth was frowning at him as she gently wiped his tears with a tissue. He had never seen anyone so beautiful. 

“Are you an angel?” It made sense. The last thing he remembered was being offered a ride, and then being robbed; then a terrible sense of fear and an awful sensation of falling. Maybe he died and now he’d get to see his parents again.

Her frown deepened. “What?”

“Are you an angel?” He repeated. “Did I die? Am I in heaven?” He held his breath waiting for her answer. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can you speak English?”

“English?” he said in English.

She smiled, and it was like a light went on in the room. “English! I speak Sokovian, and a little Russian, but I don’t understand the language you were speaking.” 

“Urdu. I was speaking Urdu.” 

“Like from India?” Jonas nodded. He’d learned it in Pakistan but she was close enough. 

Her hand was gentle on his face and neck as she dried his skin. “You’ve still got blood all over you,” she tutted. “Maybe now that you’re awake I can ask the nurse for a cloth to clean you up.” 

He’d never been in hospital, but the ugly pale green colour of the walls and the railings on the side of the bed certainly looked like he’d expect one to. It seemed more and more unlikely that he was dead the longer he was awake. The thought caused his heart to plummet. “Are you an angel?” he asked again but with far less hope than before.

“An angel? No.” She laughed. “I’ve been called many things, but not that.” She stopped her ministrations to look at him. “Why did you ask me that?”

_Because I wish I was dead._ He turned his face away from her. “Where am I?”

“You’re in hospital in Poughkeepsie—in New York State.” 

He gave a small nod. That made sense. He’d gotten off the bus in Poughkeepsie. Something must have happened on that car ride after those boys took his things, but he couldn’t remember. He went to sit up. Pain shot through him again, and with it a spike of fear. There was a cast on his right arm from knuckles to elbow. “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe the nurse should tell you,” she said uncertainly. “Or I could call Phil? He’s just talking with your doctor.” 

Jonas’ sense of panic was increasing with each passing moment. He remembered arriving in Poughkeepsie and part of the car ride but after that everything else was a blank. He had no idea how he’d ended up in hospital or why, and he had no idea who ‘Phil’ was, or who this girl was, either. _I want my mother,_ he thought, and the stab of longing was so fierce it stole his breath.

“Don’t cry.” The girl blotted his tears. 

He reached for her with his left hand, grabbing her hand and holding it tightly. “Please,” he begged. He had no idea what he was asking.

“It’s okay,” she soothed. “Your pain must be really bad. I’m going to call for the nurse.” She pressed a button somewhere on the side of the bed, all without letting go of his hand. She began stroking his forehead, in long, gentle movements that reminded Jonas painfully of what his father used to do when he was a child trying to go to sleep. He sobbed. 

She let him pull her hand to his chest as he clung to it like it was a rope and he were drowning. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.” Jonas shook his head. He was heartsick and in pain and terribly, terribly alone; clutching the hand of a girl he didn’t even know. Nothing would ever be okay ever again.

* * *

“He’s awake!”

Wanda looked up from where she’d been stroking Jonas’ forehead. “Just now,” she said to Phil and the nurse that Wanda had met the day before.

“Och, he’s in pain.” The nurse immediately took in the situation; Jonas crying piteously and clutching Wanda’s hand. She pulled a syringe and an alcohol swab out of the pocket of her scrub top and immediately went about injecting the syringe into a port on his I.V. “That will set you to rights, lad.” She smiled at him. “My name’s Moira, by the way and I’ve been your nurse for the past three days.”

Phil came closer, his forehead creased in concern. “Poor boy,” he murmured. 

Moira was still chattering lightly to Jonas as she went about her tasks. Jonas’ weeping had slowed so that Wanda was finally able to properly dry his face. She was leaning awkwardly over the railing of his bed but she didn’t want to take her hand back while he was so distressed. He looked grey and miserable, wrung out and utterly exhausted. She had no idea what caused his tears but Wanda’s heart immediately went out to him. 

“There you are,” the nurse said as she straightened Jonas’ blankets. She looked at him critically as he peered back up at her, sad and fearful all at once. “I think you’d probably like to get cleaned up, wouldn’t you?” 

“Thank you,” Jonas said softly.

“I’ll be back in a mo’” Moira said and she went out. 

“So you are English,” Phil smiled as he stepped closer. 

Jonas was still looking between Phil and Wanda. “Who are you?” There was a thread of panic in his voice. Phil heard it because he pulled the second hospital chair over and sat down, making himself look smaller and less imposing. 

“My name’s Phil Coulson,” he said. “And this is my daughter, Wanda Maximoff.” There was a warm feeling in Wanda’s chest to hear Phil call her that. 

Jonas’ eyes were still wide with ill-contained fear and his gaze was darting between Phil and Wanda. His irises were pale blue with his pupils ringed with a soft yellow, like the sun in a winter sky, just like she’d thought.

“Wanda?” Jonas repeated, looking at her. His expression hadn’t changed. _He’s so afraid,_ Wanda thought. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. 

“That’s right.” Wanda smiled at him. 

Phil leaned his forearms on his legs. “The reason why we’re here is because you walked into our barn. You were injured and you lost consciousness. We brought you here by ambulance. It’s been about six days since you were injured and three since you came here.” 

“Six days?” 

“Yes.” Phil nodded. “And apparently you were walking for at least two of them. You’re very brave, Jonas.” 

Jonas didn’t look like he felt very brave. “Why do you know my name?”

“You told it to my oldest son right before you collapsed in the barn. He thought you might be English by your accent, and it sounds like he was right. Where are you from?”

Wanda felt Jonas tighten his grip on her hand. Her arm was getting sore from being held in the same position for so long, and her back was tweaking from the way she was bent over the railing but she was loathe to move. Instead she gripped Jonas’ hand back.

“How was I injured?” Jonas ignored Phil’s question. “And how bad? I know my wrist is broken, but what else? How badly was I hurt?” It looked like Jonas was seconds away from a full-on panic attack, and she shot Phil a desperate look. 

“Your right wrist is broken, and you got some bad cuts that became infected, and a nasty bump on your head, but you’re going to be fine—you’re going to be fine. I promise.” 

“But how—“ Jonas started sitting up, but cried out and sagged back down. He tugged Wanda with him and she gasped as the railing dug further into her ribs. 

“Sorry!” Jonas cried and immediately let go. “I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

His winter sky eyes met hers and Wanda felt a jolt go through her. Her heart thumped. “I’m fine,” she said faintly.

“I’m sorry,” Jonas said again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” He covered his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking. 

Moira came back in, a basin, towels and a clean gown in her hands. “What’s this?” she cried, looking at them accusingly. “Why is he crying?”

Phil stood, actually looking flustered. “We, uh.”

“Out.” She glared at the two of them. “I need to help him get clean and clearly you two need to go.” She directed her next comment at Wanda and her tone softened. “You can come back in a half-hour if you like.” 

“I think we’ll head home, actually,” Phil said. He still looked uncomfortable with having been scolded by the nurse. “Jonas, we’ll see you tomorrow?”

There was no answer and Moira had already gone to Jonas’ side, murmuring to him sympathetically. 

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Phil said to Wanda decisively.

“I hope so,” Wanda said absently. She was looking back at Jonas as Phil led her out of the room. Her heart was still pounding from the look they’d shared. She didn’t know what it meant.

* * *

Steve walked into the living room and slumped morosely onto the couch. 

“What’s up buttercup?” Tony was lounging on the love-seat with his knees over the arm rest. He raised his head from Pepper’s lap. “Something wrong with Bucky bear?”

Pepper looked up from her textbook. “Is everything okay?”

Bruce was eyeing him with concern as well. Steve waved his hand in a negating gesture. “Yes, everything’s fine—the twins say ‘hi’ by the way, and the boy from the barn finally woke up.” 

“That’s good news,” Bruce said. 

“All of that sounds peachy-keen,” Tony echoed. “So why the long face?”

“It’s just—“ Steve sighed. “I really miss Bucky.” 

Pepper made a sympathetic noise. “It must be hard to be away from him, especially now that you’ve sorted everything out.”

“Yeah. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.” He tried to smile.

“I know what you mean.” Bruce put down the Starktab he was reading. “I haven’t been away from Wanda and Pietro for more than a few hours since I was fourteen. I worry about them.” His smile looked even more forced than Steve’s felt.

“I worry about Bucky, too. I’d hate for something to happen and I wasn’t there.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “You mean like when you fell off your horse and nearly froze to death on the trail with Bucky _right there?_ Yeah, proximity is clearly what keeps people safe.”

Pepper nudged his shoulder. “Bucky saved Steve’s life, Tony. It was actually very lucky they were together.”

“Point.” Tony scowled. “Great. Now you’ve got me worried.”

“Bucky’s doing okay though,” Steve said quickly. He hadn’t meant to bring everyone down. “Dr. Foster has started a unit on analytical chemistry and they’ve been blowing stuff up in the backyard.”

“God, I love that shit!” Tony sat up, grinning broadly. “Group one metals and water for the win!”

“Oh yeah,” Bruce grinned back. “Sodium is my favourite.”

“They were actually oxidizing gummy bears with potassium chlorate.”

“Fuck that’s cool,” Tony breathed. “I wish I’d been there.”

“Bucky said it was really neat. It made a bright pink light as it reacted and then burned right through the boiling tube.”

“What did Clint and Natasha think?” Tony asked. “Damn! I wish I could’ve seen their faces!”

“I forgot to ask.” 

“I’ll text the OTP later. Do you think they took pictures?”

Steve winced. “I forgot to ask?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re useless at this. Did they make it with bleach first?”

“I think so.” Steve nodded. “I remember Dr. Foster teaching you, me and Pepper that last year.”

“It really was fun,” Pepper smiled. “I always hated chemistry before Dr. Foster. I was always so happy that I could take it on the farm with everyone rather than with the incredibly boring Mr. Smith at my high school.”

“Speaking of high school… how was Pietro’s first day?”

Steve looked apologetically at Bruce. “I forgot to ask.” 

“Totally useless.” Tony shook his head.

“It’s okay. I should just Skype them myself. I just keep forgetting they have access to technology now.” Bruce’s smile was rueful. 

“You definitely should go Skype them,” Tony shooed Bruce with his hand that didn’t have the bright pink cast. “Steve is clearly pathetic at gathering intel and I’m sure the Wonder Twins would be happy to hear from you.” 

“They’ve just went down for dinner,” Steve said. “Give them half-an-hour.” 

“I wish I had been there,” Tony said again. “It’s weird to think of them doing chemistry without me.” 

“There doing a lot of stuff without us,” Steve said. “They went for a trail ride today with Mr. Odinson and collected acorns that they’re going to leach and turn into flour.”

“Wow. I bet the twins loved that.” Bruce sighed and picked up his Starkpad with his good hand. But then he put it down again and turned to look imploringly at Pepper. “We’ve only been away since Sunday evening. Is it stupid that I miss them this much?”

“Not at all.” Pepper got up gracefully from the loveseat and moved to sit in between Steve and Bruce on the couch. “They’ve been your entire world for the last—what?—three years? Being away from them certainly would take some getting used to.”

“But you’re doing fine with being away,” Steve chimed in. “I mean, we know how much you love your parents and your brother. Why aren’t you as sad as we are?”

Pepper frowned in thought. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Undoubtedly I miss them, but I don’t think it’s that bad.” 

“You’re not in love with your brother the way Steve’s in love with Bucky,” Tony said helpfully.

Pepper made a face. “Ew!”

Bruce laughed. “But I’m not in love with Wanda or Pietro that way, either.”

“Ew!” Pepper said again, but then her thoughtful expression came back. “Maybe it’s because my family is different than yours. Maybe it’s because I’ve had my family for my whole life and they’ve always been there for me. You guys have never had that.” 

Tony, Bruce and Steve all went quiet as they thought about what she said. 

“That,” Tony said, “is sadly accurate.” 

“My mom was dead by the time I was twelve,” Steve said softly. 

“I know, sweetie.” Pepper put her arm around him and he leaned against her shoulder, once again profoundly grateful for the miracle that had brought Pepper and the others into his life. 

“I’d rather not rehash my pain and misery, and we know Bruce’s past is horrible without needing details,” Tony said. “But suffice to say, Pepper’s right. None of us really had a family until Phil found us and brought us home.”

“Wanda and Pietro are my family. But now you guys are, too. It feels good.” Bruce was looking right at Tony when he said it.

“Right back atcha, bro.” 

They all sat in silence for a few more moments. 

“Okay,” Tony said. “What the fuck are we doing?”

Pepper, Steve and Bruce all looked at him. “I think we’re studying?” Bruce said.

“No, I mean ‘what are we doing _here_?’”

“Studying?” Bruce said again.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Bruce!”

“I think Tony is asking what you’re doing in New York when the people you love are back in Poughkeepsie,” Pepper said. 

“What she said.” Tony nodded in Pepper’s direction.

“I am planning to transfer back,” Steve said. “Why, are you thinking of coming with me?”

Bruce swallowed, looking at Tony. “Uh.” 

“Tony’d be going too,” Pepper said to Bruce. “He wouldn’t make you choose. Would you Tony?”

“You’d be the only reason I’d stay,” Tony said seriously to her.

Pepper leaned around Steve to gaze at Tony. “While I can’t say I want to give up the privacy and independence afforded by this apartment, I won’t stay here if you’re not. I go wherever you go.” Steve found himself looking away from the intensity of the gaze Pepper and Tony were sharing.

“We’ll rent a place by the university,” Tony said to her, still acting like he and Pepper were the only ones in the room. “Close enough to the kids to visit more than we can now, but still be able to live together.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Pepper’s lips curled up in a private smile. 

“I like the idea of being closer to the twins,” Bruce mused. “But can we take the courses we need? I really like the range of bio MSU offers.” 

“Pretty sure we can,” Steve said. 

“We can,” Tony said decisively then blushed. “I may have checked.”

Pepper was looking at him. “You _planned_ this?” 

“I couldn’t take Steve’s mopey face anymore! He Skypes with Bucky and then spends the night looking like he dropped his ice cream! I just can’t take it.”

Steve was confused. “But I was already transferring—“ 

Tony made a face. “I know, alright?”

“Ah,” Pepper said knowingly. She smiled. “Tony, you should tell him.”

Steve’s confusion got deeper. “Tell me what?”

“Tell him what?” Tony repeated. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Tony—“ Pepper looked pointedly at him.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine. You were moving back home just to be with Bucky. And you wouldn’t be here anymore. Okay?”

Steve was looking between Tony and Pepper, still not sure he was understanding. “What?”

Bruce grinned at him. “I think what Tony’s trying to say is that I’m not his only brother of consequence.”

Steve got it and a smile began to spread across his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Tony mumbled.

“I love you, too.” Steve said. “And I’m really happy we’re all moving back together.”

“Say that again when you’re sharing a room with Clint. He snores like a bulldog,” Tony said. But he was smiling.

* * *

“You’re doing great.” 

Jonas looked over at Wanda as she was helping him make his way across his hospital room. Dr. Cho had told him that he was doing much better. The numerous cuts and scrapes over his back and torso were beginning to heal as the infections responded well to the antibiotic treatment. She thought they might be able to actually stop packing the large gash on his right shoulder and finally stitch it closed in the next few days. She’d already stitched up the ragged tear over his lower ribs, and it tugged uncomfortably as he swayed. But it was the abrasion on his hip that was causing him the most problem. It was a large, aching, infected mess of skin covering nearly his entire flank, which made every step a trial.

Naturally Dr. Cho felt that it was a brilliant idea for him to be up and walking as much as possible.

The pain in his hip coupled with the pain in his shoulder, the pain over his ribs and the weight of the cast on his wrist made balancing a bit of a chore. Wanda was supporting his left forearm with hers, their hands intertwined, letting him lean on her. If he’d been back in school in Islamabad he would’ve thought it romantic to be holding hands with such a pretty girl. 

But he wasn’t there. Instead he was in hospital in Poughkeepsie, in pain and totally dependent on the kindness of a girl he barely knew to help keep him upright. 

Because his cousin had abandoned him and his parents were dead and he was completely alone. It was too much. 

“I’d like to sit down.” 

“Of course,” she said with that peculiar accent. Gently she led him over to the armchair and helped him ease into it so that there was only a minimum of pressure against his wounds. He slunk down, covering his eyes with his left hand. He felt her press against his uninjured shoulder. “Are you okay?”

_No, I’m not._ he wanted to scream. But she’d been so kind, he couldn’t put that on her. He forced himself to look at her and smile. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“I’m sure,” she perched on the armrest on his good side, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. She was smiling down at him, her incredible green eyes shining with compassion. “Do you need anything for pain? Would you like me to call the nurse?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. His I.V. morphine had been discontinued the day before and he was now taking regular pain pills instead. He missed the easy, floaty feeling the drug had provided and he’d almost lied about his pain level in order to get it back. But his parents had died when their car had been smashed off the road by a truck and down a steep embankment into a river. They’d suffered and died without anything to dull their agony. He deserved nothing less.

“So,” Wanda said after a minute of awkward silence, “the doctor says you might be able to go home on Monday?”

Jonas’ smile turned brittle. “Yes, she did.” 

“Where’s home for you?”

Her question unconsciously echoed Jonas’ thoughts. His home didn’t exist anymore. He had nowhere to go. “I’m somewhat in-between homes at the moment,” he replied honestly. He kept his tone light. There was no reason for her to be concerned. 

The hospital social worker had come in to talk to him before, and then there’d been some police officers all the way from New York City, and then a very intimidating woman by the name of ‘Ms. May,’ had come to hear his story. He’d told them all the same thing: that his name was ‘Jonas Shade’, and he’d been travelling from London to see the U.S., that he’d been robbed by the same thugs who’d then apparently tried to kill him; that he had no memory of what had actually occurred. That he was on his own. 

In retrospect, he had no idea why he hadn’t told them the truth—that he had come from Pakistan to London to Poughkeepsie to try to find his cousin, who was now his legal guardian. He’d had a vague thought that maybe the thugs who’d stole his identification might be able to find him and then finish him off if he used his real name, but a lot of it was just the sheer enormity of admitting that he had no one. That his parents were dead and he was so terribly alone. 

The police had said they’d do their best to track the criminals, and the social worker had promised to help him replace his missing identification. Ms. May had made the extraordinary statement that, since he was under the age of eighteen, he was not legally allowed to be on his own in the state of New York and, until he was both fit to fly and in possession of his proper documents, he would either be found a place in a youth shelter or a foster family. Neither option had sounded appealing in the least. 

Wanda’s fingers were playing with the edges of her black skirt. “Where will you go?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he said with more confidence than he felt. It would be completely unfair for him to make his isolation her problem. Once again he forced himself to smile.

“You might be able to stay with us.” Her eyes were still fixed firmly on her skirt. “Phil likes to take care of children who don’t have people to stay with. I’m sure he’d be happy to take you in, too.” 

Jonas blinked. “I thought Ms. May was looking to find me a temporary placement?” 

Wanda’s green eyes met his. “Natasha told me that Melinda often asks Phil to take in older children who might otherwise be hard to place. She’ll probably ask him to take you.” She dropped her gaze again. “Would you like that?”

Jonas took a breath. Phil had come by as often as Wanda had and he’d been a solid and comforting presence each time. He chatted easily with Jonas without pushing for details of any sort and he seemed to have a sixth sense about when Jonas needed to be alone. He obviously cared for Wanda, and if the way he continually mentioned the names of his other wards was any indication, he clearly cared for all of them. 

And Wanda would be there as well. Even though he’d only known her for such a short time, he already couldn’t imagine making it through the day without her supportive presence. 

“I think I would,” Jonas said slowly.

Wanda beamed at him.

* * *

“Nice iPod,” Skye said to Brock. “Where’d you get it?”

Pietro was standing with Skye, Brock and Grant across the street from the high school. Last period hadn’t finished yet, but Brock and Grant had decided that they were going to skip and Skye and Pietro had tagged alone. Pietro didn’t like skipping as much school as being friends with Skye and the others seemed to require, but he liked Skye too much to make a fuss about it. And the way she looked at him, with her big brown eyes and that secret smile, made missing out on Intro to Law not seem like such a big deal. 

Brock smirked at Skye as he pulled a bud out of his ear. “Who’s asking?”

“I am.” Skye scowled at him. “You get a part-time job or something? Because I know you didn’t have that before.”

“Maybe you don’t know everything about me,” Brock grinned at her. He gestured at Grant, who was sitting on the pavement, cigarette held awkwardly between his fingers. “Grant helped me get it. And a wad of cash, too.”

Grant looked up at the sound of his name and grimaced at Brock. “Fuck off. I didn’t do anything.” 

Brock’s smile didn’t dim. “I think you did. At least as much as me.”

“Shut up,” Grant mumbled. He took a drag off his cigarette.

“What do you mean ‘wad of cash?’” Skye’s scowl deepened. “Did you steal it?”

Brock laughed. “And what if I did?”

“Jesus, Brock!” Skye stepped closer to him. “You’d better not have hurt someone—“

“Watch it, bitch!” Brock snarled. 

Grant stood and dropped his cigarette as Pietro stepped into between Brock and Skye. 

“Hey!” Pietro put his hand on Brock’s chest to move him back. 

“What the fuck Brock!” Grant shouted as he shouldered his way in between Brock, Skye and now Pietro. “She’s a girl!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Skye protested. Privately, Pietro agreed with Grant. His sister was small, too, and small people should be protected. 

“Just leave it alone, alright?” Grant said to Brock, ignoring Skye’s protest. “Leave it.”

Brock glared at Grant for a tense moment. “Whatever,” he spat and moved off, popping the buds back in his ears and turning up the music loud enough that Pietro could hear it where he was.

“Seriously. You guys better not have done anything,” Skye said to Grant. “You know what’ll happen if the two of you get caught again.”

“I know! It was Brock’s idea, okay? No one got hurt.” Grant said, but he dropped his gaze when he said it, like he couldn’t look Skye in the eye.

“Okay. As long as no one got hurt. But you guys gotta stop doing that, okay? I’d hate for you to be moved to a different group home.” Skye bopped Grant affectionately on the shoulder.

Grant gazed at Skye, and his expression was so full of blatant adoration that Pietro almost couldn’t look at him. 

Pietro considered what he’d just heard. It looked like Brock and Grant sometimes stole stuff, which Pietro totally understood. Brock and Grant—and Skye—lived in a group home and as their bagged lunches attested, they had no money. It reminded Pietro of what it felt like living in the refugee camp, and how poverty wasn’t about being poor, it was about not having what you knew others did. In the camp he used to steal necessities, food or clothes or blankets so he and his sister could survive. When he and Wanda were on the lam with Bruce, he used to steal luxuries like chocolate, or make-up for Wanda, or coffee. Wanda hated it, but Bruce understood it, too. His situation might be different now, but he’d never forget that feeling of privation. Why shouldn’t Brock and Grant take what they wanted as long as no one got hurt?

His parents would’ve hated it though. They never raised him to steal. The thought caused Pietro’s throat to tighten and his eyes to burn, making him cough. 

Skye noticed. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just the smoke from Grant’s cigarette.” 

Grant scowled at him, exhaling the smoke from the new cigarette he’d just lit. “I’m not even fucking near you.” 

“Go further,” Skye pushed his shoulders. “He’s allergic to smoke.” That wasn’t true, but Pietro’s lungs were still healing and the smoke did irritate them. He looked at Grant and shrugged.

Grant’s scowl deepened but he took another step back. 

Brock ambled over, bad mood apparently forgotten. “So what’re we doing this weekend, losers?”

Grant shrugged. “Buying Pietro a pack of smokes?”

Skye shot Grant a dark look. “You’re an ass.”

“My brother is coming back from university,” Pietro said to fill in the blank airspace. “And I think that he and my sister and I will go for a trail ride.”

“What, with ATVs?” 

“No, horses,” Pietro said to Brock. “The place we are staying has many.” It was hard for Pietro to refer to it as ‘home,’ even though he couldn’t complain about having more space, or horses to ride, or enough food to eat. But home would always be he used to live in Sokovia with his sister and his parents, or the tiny apartment he used to share with just Wanda and Bruce. Home was what he’d had before Tony Stark. 

“You have horses? Fuck me,” Brock whistled. 

“You really lucked out with your group home,” Grant said. 

“It’s not a group home.” 

“Yeah, Grant,” Brock said. “Pietro’s right. It’s not a group home. He’s like little orphan Annie, adopted by Daddy Warbucks! But then again, that’s what happens to rich kids like him. They just go from a good situation to a better one.” He shook his head. 

Pietro bristled. He thought of those two years he and Wanda spent begging for scraps of _anything_ in the camp in Latveria, and then the three years they spent barely keeping their heads above water in New York. “I am not rich!”

“Oh yeah? You got taken in by your rich sugar daddy. You have no idea what’s it’s like to live on our side of the street.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Skye whirled on Brock. “He was in a fucking refugee camp!”

Brock made a face. “He got out, didn’t he?”

Pietro fisted his hands. “You have _no idea_ what it took to get out of that camp.”

“It’ doesn’t matter where you were, does it? Because now you’re loaded.”

“I’m not!”

“Your backpack says otherwise.” Grant gestured at the orange ‘Star Wars’ bag hanging off Pietro’s shoulder. “That shit ain’t cheap.”

“I am not rich! Fight me!”

“Whoa, big guy,” Skye put her hands on Pietro’s shoulders. “Ignore my stupid friends. They’re stupid.” She glared at Grant and Brock. Only Grant looked sheepish. 

“I am not rich,” Pietro said again, barely mollified by Skye’s words. “If you want to see someone who doesn’t know what being poor is, you should look at Tony Stark. He’s rich. Not me.”

“I’d love to look at Tony Stark!” Brock laughed. “Right in his rich fucking wallet!” 

“Yeah, that dude is one wealthy asshole,” Grant chimed in. “If anyone has more money than he deserves, it’s him.”

“I know that very well,” Pietro spat. “And I do have to look at him! Every weekend. He lives in my house.” It was too easy for his anger at Brock and Grant to transform into his never-ending anger at Tony. He would hate Tony Stark for what he’d done to his family for as long as he lived. 

Skye, Brock and Grant were staring at him, mouths open. “You live with _Tony Stark?_ ” Brock said finally.

“Yes. Unfortunately.” 

“Fucking capitalist. Getting rich on the backs of the workers,” Grant sneered.

Brock’s gaze was intense. “He really as rich as they say?”

Pietro grimaced, thinking of Tony’s constant attempts to buy him and his sister with the offer of things and how readily Wanda had capitulated. “Yes.”

“Damn,” Brock exhaled. He looked at Grant. “We should get a piece of that.”

Grant was looking at Brock right back, eyes narrowed as if he was reading something in Brock’s expression that only he could see. “Not here.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Brock said easily. He grinned at Pietro. “So, when is Tony gonna be home?”

“He comes back every weekend,” Pietro said. “Why?”

Skye’s eyes were wide with concern. “What’re you two assholes thinking?” 

“Don’t worry Skye-baby,” Brock patted her head. 

Grant pushed Brock’s hand away. “Don’t touch her!”

Skye shoved Grant. “I’m not yours! Quit it!” 

“And there’s my bus,” Pietro said with relief as the yellow school bus finally pulled up to the front of the school. “I will see you three on Monday.”

“I’ll text you!” Skye called after him as he dashed for the bus. He turned quickly and waved to her before running up the bus steps and finding a seat near the back.

He watched his three friends continuing to bicker with each other as the bus pulled away, and he frowned. He liked Skye. He liked her a lot. She was funny and smart and sexy as hell and he’d love to get to know her a lot better. Brock and Grant however were a complete other story. But it seemed like the three of them were a package deal. He couldn’t hang out with Skye without the other two being around as well. 

And unfortunately he hadn’t really made any other friends. It was a lot harder to break into the high school’s cliques than he’d thought it would be. Being in a small town, the kids had all been together since elementary school. Outsiders might be exotic, but they weren’t necessarily welcome. It looked like he took Skye, Brock and Grant as that package deal, or ended up with no friends at all.

His phone chimed and he pulled it out of his backpack. It was a StarkPhone donated by Tony, which put Pietro’s teeth on edge even while he grudgingly admitted that he totally loved it.

It was a text from Skye: **Next time don’t leave me with these fuckheads**

Pietro laughed: **I won’t I promise**

**You’d better. Call me tomorrow?**

**Sure** Pietro texted back, a lot more casual than his hammering heart would imply. She wanted him to call her! He couldn’t stop smiling.

* * *

“Hello, love,” Jonas smiled at Wanda as she came into his hospital room. 

It was Saturday morning. Phil had dropped Wanda off at the hospital on his way to bringing Natasha to her dance lessons. She’d tried to play it cool over breakfast about how pleased she was to have a chance to see Jonas today, but now that it was just the two of them she let her excitement show.

And he’d called her ‘love.’ That had to be a good sign, right?

“You look very handsome today!” Wanda said, moving to where he was sitting in the large armchair by the window of his room. He’d been reading a book when she came in but he immediately folded down the page and gave her his full attention. “Did you wash your hair?” Gently she ruffled the soft blond strands.

“The nurse helped me take a shower, in fact,” he said. “And look, I’m not wearing one of those horrible gowns.” He stretched out his right leg to show her how it was encased in a pale mint green pair of scrubs. He winced. “Bugger. I keep forgetting how much my hip hurts.”

“Do you need some medication?” She said, concerned. She hated to see him in pain. 

“I’m fine,” he said with a small smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“As long as you’re all right.” She pulled up one of the plastic chairs that had been left in the room. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, this?” He picked up the book. “It’s just some silly thing one of the nurses gave me. I’m not sure what it’s about, really.”

Gently she took it from him, turning it over in her hands. It seemed to be some kind of romance novel, with a picture of a beautiful woman on the cover in a seductive pose and what looked to be a Victorian Era dress. She grinned. “You like love stories?” Her face heated as she realized what she’d said.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He smiled softly at her, seemingly not noticing her blush. “My parents have a wonderful love…” His voice trailed off and he swallowed and blinked several times before laughing. “I’m sure that’s nothing you’d want to hear about.”

“Not true!” She protested. “I’d love to hear about your family.”

“I’d rather hear about you,” he said. “You’re much more interesting.”

His words warmed her inside. He thought she was interesting! He was truly the nicest boy she’d ever met. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said honestly. 

“There’s nothing special about me. Sometimes I don’t even understand why you keep coming back to keep me company. A girl like you must have much better things to do.” He smiled again, but his eyes were so sad. It brought up an unwanted memory of the refugee camp and the way the other children looked—like they’d never smile again. She saw that look on Pietro’s face after their parents died. It took years for that look to fade from her brother’s eyes. She _hated_ to think of Jonas feeling that way.

“I like to keep you company.” 

“I have no idea why you do,” he cupped her hand with his own where she held the book. “But I’m very grateful for it.”

She gazed deeply into his winter-coloured eyes, feeling her heart start to pound. _I love him,_ she thought, startled by the realization. She immediately dropped her eyes, terrified he’d notice.

He let go of her hand, bracing himself against the armrest as he shifted position. He winced. 

“You’re in pain.” Wanda stood. “I will find the nurse.” 

He shook his head. “You’re so good to me.”

_I love you,_ she thought. “You’re my friend,” she said instead. 

“Thank you,” he said. Sincerity shining from his eyes. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

She smiled, unable to hold his gaze now that she knew the truth about her feelings, and practically ran out of the room. 

She knew she was grinning like a loon but she couldn’t help it. Her whole life she’d wanted someone to love her like her father had loved her mother, but she’d never dreamed it would happen. Love was non-existent in the camp, and the whole time she and Pietro had been with Bruce she’d been too busy trying to survive to even give a boy a second glance. 

But now there was Jonas. Beautiful, perfect, sweet Jonas, who was so polite and kind and thought she was interesting. Jonas who’d called her an angel when they’d first met. 

Jonas who was going to come live with Phil and her and the others on Monday. Just two days away. 

She pressed her hands to her heart, feeling like she was going to burst with how much love she felt for him. She couldn’t stop smiling.

* * *

The weekend passed in a blaze of trail rides, homework, “My Neighbour Totoro,” dance lessons and stolen kisses and all too soon it was Sunday evening and Tony, Steve and Bruce were packed up, ready to go.

“I hate to leave you,” Steve whispered to Bucky, their foreheads touching. They were together in Bucky’s room sitting on his bed, taking a few moments for a private good-bye. 

“I hate it when you go,” Bucky whispered back. His hand was resting on the nape of Steve’s neck, feeling the smooth skin and taut muscle; he ran his thumb up and down the side of Steve’s throat. 

“Reading week’s next week, and we’ll all be back for nearly ten days.”

“But you’ll be studying for exams,” Bucky whined. “I won’t get to see you.”

Steve smiled. “I’ll make time.”

“You’d better,” Bucky sighed. “I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you too,” Steve said. Then: “God, we’re sappy.”

“Totally.” Bucky grinned. He leaned into Steve, their lips touching. As he predicted, Steve immediately kissed him back, his mouth claiming Bucky’s in a searing kiss. Steve was the first boyfriend Bucky had ever had—and vice versa—but they were patient with each other and quick learners. Bucky couldn’t imagine anyone kissing him as well as Steve did. He’d be happy to only kiss Steve for the rest of his life. 

Bucky got lost in the kiss for a while; the soft intensity of Steve’s lips, the warm, sweet taste of Steve’s mouth. If he concentrated he could even feel the edges of the scars on either side of Steve’s tongue from his accident earlier that year, but it was nothing that Bucky wanted to remember. Instead he focussed on the feel of Steve’s mouth, Steve’s firm muscles under his hand. 

Reluctantly Steve broke the kiss. “I have to go,” he said mournfully. “Tony’ll be honking the horn any second if I don’t get out there.” 

“He’ll wait,” Bucky said. “You’re driving after all.”

Steve laughed. “For the next six weekends, or until he manages to convince someone to take his cast off. Whichever comes first.” He glanced over his shoulder to the window, where Tony’s car was visible on the driveway below. “But I know he wants to get going.”

“He wants to go get Pepper,” Bucky agreed. If Tony felt anything for Pepper like what he felt for Steve, Bucky couldn’t blame him. With a heartfelt sigh Bucky let Steve go. “Text me?”

“As soon as I arrive,” Steve promised. He stroked the side of Bucky’s face and Bucky leaned into his palm. “Stay safe.”

“Of course!”

“Promise me!” Steve held his gaze. “Bucky, I need to know you’ll be careful while I’m gone.”

“Of course.” Bucky creased his forehead. “Why so worried?”

“No reason.” Steve shook himself like he was shaking off a bad thought. “I just care about you.”

Bucky grinned. “Right back atcha, punk.” 

“Jerk.’ Steve leaned in and kissed him again. 

A horn blared from outside, loud enough to make the two boys jump back. Steve made a face. “Tony and his impeccable timing.”

Bucky laughed. “Time for you to go, Cinderella.”

Steve laughed back. “As long as that means you’re my Prince Charming.”

“Awww!” Bucky crooned, and then he started gagging. “Sugar…overload!” he gasped. “Boyfriend’s…too…sweet…” he collapsed backwards onto the bed. 

“You love it.” Steve bent over and kissed him swiftly. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” They held each other’s gazes, Bucky allowing himself to get lost in the bright summer blue of Steve’s eyes. 

The horn blared again. 

Steve shot a dirty look towards the window. “My chariot awaits.” He stood.

“Get outta here before Tony sends a search party.” Bucky slapped Steve’s ass.

Steve mock-glared at him. “You’re lucky I have to leave.” 

Bucky’s face fell. “No, I’m not.” 

“Buck—“ Steve moaned and in two strides had pulled Bucky up off the bed and into his arms. “I’d do anything to stay. You know that.”

“I know,” Bucky said against his shoulder. He sighed. 

With one more tight squeeze Steve let him go. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Steve smirked and kissed him lightly. “Jerk.” 

“Punk,” Bucky echoed.

And then Steve was out the door. Bucky scrambled to the window and watched as Steve dashed out the back door and over to Tony’s car, where Bruce and Tony were waiting. On his way he hugged Phil, Clint, Natasha and Wanda good-bye. Pietro was standing off to the side, holding himself stiffly like it was hard for him to say good-bye to Steve but he didn’t really want to admit it. Of course Steve noticed. He went over to the younger boy, gently pulling him into a hug which Pietro actually returned. It was quick but real and it made Bucky smile. 

Just before Steve got into the driver’s side of Tony’s car he looked up the window and waved. 

Bucky waved back, hoping Steve could see him against the glare. And then the door closed, Steve tooted the horn one more time, and they were gone. 

And it was going to be another whole week before Bucky would see him again. With a heartfelt sigh, Bucky pulled himself away from the window and went downstairs.

* * *

“I’m terribly sorry,” Detective James Montgomery Falsworth of the London Metro Police said, “but there’s no further sign of him.”

Peggy was gripping Angie’s hand tight enough that it must have hurt. “What?”

“We were able to confirm with Visas and Immigration that he crossed into the UK on the date you specified.” He held out a printed photo. “Is this he?”

Peggy took the offered page. It was a grainy black-and-white image of a tall young man with light hair and handsome, pointed features. He looked unfocused, like he’d survived a terrible tragedy and hadn’t yet come to terms with his loss. There were deep rings under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in a while. 

Peggy licked her lips, trying to reconcile this image with the photo she’d given Detective Falsworth when they’d first met. It was a selfie that Vision had taken in front of his school in Islamabad from four months previous. His eyes were shining and his face was split by a wide smile. He looked young and happy and completely different from the picture she’d just seen. “I believe so, yes.”

“This image was taken as he left the arrivals area of Terminal three,” Falsworth continued. “We have others showing him walking to Terminal two, and then going to the Airport Express and then getting off at Terminal five. But it’s unclear what happened after that point. ” 

Angie tilted her head. “So he gets to Terminal five, and then what, vanishes into thin air?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying Ms. Martinelli. I’m saying that it’s unclear where he went, not that he vanished. He must be somewhere, it’s just finding out where.”

“There’s no more surveillance photos?” Peggy asked. 

“Of course there are,” Falsworth sniffed. “Heathrow is one of the most secure airports in the world. The problem is that the departures area is extremely busy, and one young man is hard to spot among thousands.”

“Quite,” Peggy tried to smile. 

“And you’ve had no further word?” 

“Nothing,” Angie said. “Peg checks her email every day, but…”

“How unfortunate.” 

“And there’s been no word from any of your colleagues?” Peggy asked. 

“The picture you supplied has been distributed on the National Computer System. His information is now available throughout London, the United Kingdom and internationally. Our standard procedure is to make inquires to all hospitals within a reasonable distance of the last area the individual was sighted, as well as our colleagues with London Ambulance. Beyond the pictures from the airport, there’s been no sightings.”

“Have your officers at Heathrow asked directly? Canvassed the workers there to see if they have any more information?” 

“Within reason, yes.”

“Within reason?” Angie spluttered. “What the hell does that mean?”

Falsworth took a breath. “Ms. Carter, Ms. Martinelli, while I can truly appreciate how important your cousin is to you, he is not the only missing adolescent being investigated by the Metropolitan Police. I wish we had sufficient manpower to devote to each of these investigations, but we don’t.” 

“You think he’s gone missing on purpose,” Peggy narrowed his eyes at the Detective. “You think he’s run away!” 

“Do you realize how many adolescents go missing in London every month? Well over fifteen-hundred. And each and every one has concerned relatives knocking at my door, asking me to find them.” He sighed as he said it, as if the weight of all those missing children was sitting squarely on his shoulders and he could barely hold it up anymore. “I promise we are doing all we can.”

“But meanwhile he’s somewhere out there—“ Angie gestured violently at the window of the Detective’s office, “lost and alone and you’re telling me ‘you’re doing all you can’? Well let me tell you—“

“Ms. Martinelli I don’t appreciate—“

“Wait!” 

Both Angie and the Detective turned to look at Peggy. 

“You said that you had no other surveillance images of Vision beyond the airport?”

“Yes,” Falsworth said. “I had all the footage from the security cameras at all airport departure points reviewed. There was no one who matched his description.”

“Yet the last time he was viewed was when he entered Terminal five?”

“Yes, heading towards the departure area, as I said.”

“And did anyone think to check if his name is on any passenger manifests for planes departing from the departure area?”

Falsworth opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. “No. I don’t believe we have.”

“Well, perhaps you’d like to ask those airlines which had flights leaving after three p.m. that Thursday if a young man by the name of ‘Vision Jarvis’ was on any of them.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Falsworth said. “Damn. It never occurred to me that he wasn’t seen leaving the airport because he’d taken another flight!”

“Do you think he did that Peggy?” Angie was looking at her wide-eyed. “Where would he go?”

Peggy shook her head. “I’ve truly no idea.”

* * *

“So,” Skye said, sliding up to Pietro at his locker and biting her bottom lip. “Miss me?”

Pietro turned to her with a small smile. He’d been texting with Skye all weekend, and the way she’d been flirting made him think that she might like him as much as he liked her. If there was one thing life had taught him it was that it was too short to waste time; he replied with total honesty. “I thought about you every day.”

“Good,” she breathed and to his delight, she slid into his arms and kissed him, soft, warm and all too fleeting in deference to how many other students were around. She grinned. “You taste good.”

“So do you.” He held her hands, feeling like his heart was going to burst with happiness. 

“I need to get my books before English,” she said. “Walk me?”

“Absolutely.” He fell in step beside her, backpack on his shoulder and her hand clasped in his, feeling like everything was absolutely right in his world. 

Grant was standing by her locker, obviously waiting. His brown eyes widened and then narrowed as he saw them and saw their linked hands. “Skye? What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m with Pietro,” she said, flashing Pietro a smile. 

Grant’s expression darkened. “No.”

Pietro frowned. “No? I don’t think that is your choice.”

Grant was immediately up in his face. “And I think it is,” he spat. “You wanna make something of it?”

“Cut it out, Grant!” Skye pushed him away. “Pietro’s right. It’s not your choice, it’s mine!”

The hallway was crowded with other students as they went to their lockers and then headed off to class. People were looking with blatant interest at the unfolding conflict, with a few stopping to stare. 

Grant stepped back, his expression murderous. “I can’t believe you!” He shouted at Pietro. “I thought we were friends!”

“We are friends. Why does me being with Skye—“

“ _I liked her first!_ I’ve liked her for _forever!_ You can’t just walk in and _take_ her!”

“What the fuck?” Skye yelled back. “I am not Pietro’s to take! I don’t belong to _anyone_! You need to get that through your thick skull, Grant! I _choose_ Pietro! My choice! _Mine!_ ” She grabbed Pietro’s hand. “C’mon,” she said to him. “I don’t want to talk to this guy anymore. Let’s get to class.”

Pietro let Skye lead him away, but not before he turned back to Grant, sending him an apologetic look. Grant caught it even through the streams of teenagers around him and nodded. Pietro let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He really cared about Skye, but he hadn’t wanted Grant to get hurt. He hoped the other boy would understand that, and they could still be friends.

And then they reached English class and he sat beside Skye and they spent the whole period looking at each other and sharing notes, and Pietro forgot all about it.

* * *

“I’m glad you decided to stay with us,” Phil said.

Jonas forced his lips to curl up in an impression of a smile. It wasn’t as if he’d actually decided to stay with Phil and the others while Ms. May and the hospital social worker were trying to sort out his paperwork. He had no other place to go. But he appreciated Phil’s efforts to make it seem like he had a semblance of choice. 

Jonas’ shoulder injury had been stitched closed that morning and the wound on his hip was finally healed enough that walking was slightly less of the agonizing effort it had been, but every step still hurt, and he ached all over from his cuts and bruises. The weight of the cast on his right wrist pulled unpleasantly as he walked. It made him feel vulnerable and weak and perilously close to tears. 

Wanda was looking at him, her green eyes sharp with perception. “Would you like to sit down for a bit before we take you upstairs to your room?” 

“Thank you,” Jonas managed without too much of a quaver. He collapsed gratefully onto the large couch in the living room and closed his eyes. All he’d managed to do that day was receive stitches and then sit in a car for the short ride from the hospital to Phil’s home. It felt like he’d climbed a mountain.

“Are you hungry?” Phil asked gently. “Thirsty?”

He felt Wanda’s small weight settle beside him. “Do you need something for pain?”

“Yes, please.” 

“Coming right up,” Phil said, and a moment later there was a glass of water and two tablets waiting for him on the wooden coffee table. 

“Ta,” Jonas said and swallowed them. The water was cool against his tight throat. 

Phil was studying him. “I think you and my eldest, Steve, might be just about the same size. You can probably borrow some of his clothes until you’re ready for me to take you shopping.”

“My brother is slimmer than Steve. Maybe he should borrow his clothes instead?”

“Pietro just got his new clothes,” Phil said to Wanda. “And a looser fit might be more comfortable for Jonas right now. I’m sure Steve won’t mind.”

Jonas thought longingly of the wardrobe he’d had in his house in Sahiwal. He’d packed everything but his textbooks from his school in Islamabad, and it’d all been stolen in Poughkeepsie. The thugs who’d robbed him had taken everything, including his jacket and shoes; as if robbing him wasn’t humiliating enough. 

“He’ll need shoes,” Wanda said as if she’d sensed his thoughts. 

“We can do that,” Phil smiled at Jonas. “Is there anywhere you have anything stored that we could get for you? Or someone we could contact to send you some things?”

Jonas’ thoughts immediately flew to his parents and how he’d never get to speak with them, ever again. “No,” he managed to choke out. “There’s no one.”

“I’m sorry.” There was so much compassion in Phil’s eyes that Jonas had to look away.

He knew that he had some things left from his former home in Pakistan. His parents’ solicitor had arranged for all the belongings he’d wanted to keep to be shipped to him as soon as he emailed his new address, but he had no idea what that address might be. He didn’t know how long he’d be staying with Phil, or even if he’d be allowed to stay in the U.S. once his documents were replaced. He might even end up in jail for giving the police a false name. Maybe he should mention that.

“Phil,” he started. 

“Yes?”

Jonas looked up at the older man, who was looking back with nothing but kindness. _I lied to him,_ Jonas thought, and suddenly he had no idea how to tell him—or Wanda for that matter—that he’d lied. He didn’t think he could endure it if he lost Phil’s support or Wanda’s friendship. “I’d like something to eat,” he said instead. “If it’s not too much of a bother?”

Phil smiled. “It’d be my pleasure. What would you like?”

Jonas wasn’t really hungry, but he’d had to say something. “Perhaps some soup?”

“Coming right up.” Phil smiled and went to the kitchen. He was still visible over the half-wall that separated it from the rest of the house. 

Jonas closed his eyes again and rubbed at his temples with his good hand. His head was aching, probably from the constant pain in his right side. He wished the medication he took would start to work, or that he’d never been injured in the first place. Or that he’d actually died the way his attackers had intended, rather than being unlucky enough to survive. 

“You’re head hurts?” Wanda said softly. “Here.” She moved to stand behind him on the couch and then began to massage the tight muscles at the base of his skull and along his neck. It felt wonderful and incredibly soothing and Jonas let his head fall forward to give her more access.

“You’re so stiff. No wonder your head hurts.” She moved her hands to his shoulders, being very careful to avoid the injury on his right side. 

There was so much kindness in her hands, so much caring in the pressure from her fingertips that Jonas almost couldn’t bear it. He felt the awful burn of tears behind his eyelids and he swallowed down a sob. Wanda was trying to help him. His crying would be a poor reward indeed for her efforts. 

Instead he reached up and took one of her hands with his left, gently tugging it across his cheek. He looked up at her beautiful face, so immensely grateful for the sympathy he saw in her big green eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. He kissed her palm.

Her eyes widened with shock and she blushed, gently pulling her hand back to her chest and holding it against her heart. “You’re welcome,” she said distantly. Her eyes were soft as she looked at him, her lips tilted up in a shy smile. He smiled back at her, relieved that he no longer felt so close to tears and that he’d been able to properly convey his gratitude to this lovely girl.

“Soup’s ready.” Phil came back into the room carrying a tray set with a steaming mug, an apple cut into slices and a piece of toast. He set it down on the coffee table. “I made you chicken noodle.” 

“Thank you,” Jonas said to Phil. Now that the food was in front of him he realized he was actually hungry and he turned his attention to the mug.

“I will go upstairs and make sure your room is ready, Moj Dragi.” Wanda stroked her hand through his hair and then was gone. 

Jonas watched her practically fleeing up the stairs, confused at her sudden flight. “What she’d say?”

“No idea,” Phil said, his expression thoughtful. “No idea at all.”

* * *

“God, this week is taking forever!” Brock took a thick drag off his cigarette. “I fucking hate school.” 

“I know what you mean.” Grant flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette, looking pointedly at where Pietro and Skye’s hands were intertwined. “Lots of shit here I don’t like.” 

Skye rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Grant. I’m with Pietro. Get over it.” She moved so that her back was resting against Pietro’s chest, his arm draped over her.

Pietro smiled uncomfortably at Grant, who made a face and looked away. He’d hoped the other boy might be getting easier with the idea of him and Skye being a couple but apparently not. But then again their romance had only started on Monday. Grant probably just needed more time.

“I think it’s great that you and Pete are together,” Brock smiled broadly. “It’s about time you dated someone who wasn’t a total asshole.” 

“Thanks, I think,” Pietro said wryly.

Brock grinned. “No problem bro.” He sucked back another lungful of smoke before dropping his cigarette and rubbing it out with the heel of his shoe. He pulled another one from his pack.

“That shit’ll kill you,” Skye said.

Brock made a face. “Thanks Ma. Guess I missed all those warnings in health class.” He lit the cigarette and purposely exhaled into Skye’s face. Which also had the effect of blowing smoke into Pietro’s face as well. The smoke immediately irritated his still-healing lungs and he started to cough.

“Hey!” Skye fanned the air violently, pulling Pietro further back. “He’s allergic to smoke, dumbass!”

“I’m not,” Pietro wheezed. “My lungs—I had pneumonia a few weeks ago. They are still healing.” He took his blue inhaler out of his backpack and took a hit. The medicine immediately started soothing his lungs and he sighed in relief. 

“Sorry, dude,” Brock said. “Didn’t mean to almost kill you.” 

Pietro waved his hand in a negating gesture as he tossed the puffer back in his pack. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” 

Grant grinned with all his teeth. “Yeah, if we were gonna kill you, you’d know it.”

Skye rolled her eyes. “Jesus.”

“Cut it out,” Brock said to Grant. “You know what we talked about. Quit it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Grant said to Brock. He looked over at Pietro, expression contrite. “Sorry, man. I’m happy for you and Skye. Really.”

“Well, good,” Skye said. She went over to Grant and gave him a hug which—Pietro felt—he held a little too long. “You’re one of my bros, Grant. I’d hate for you to make me choose between Pietro and you.”

“I’d never make you do that. You mean too much to me.” 

Pietro narrowed his eyes at the intensity of Grant’s statement, but Skye didn’t seem to notice. “Good,” she said, bopping Grant lightly in the shoulder. “I like you better when you’re not an ass.”

“Hey, is Tony coming back from New York this weekend?” Brock turned his head to blow his smoke away from Pietro as he exhaled.

“Yes. He, Bruce, Steve—they are all back on Friday night.” Pietro’s voice was hoarse from coughing. 

“You must be happy to see Bruce.” Skye took Pietro’s hand looking deep into his eyes. She bit her bottom lip. 

He smiled down at her, stroking her cheek with his palm.

“Get a room!” Brock shouted. 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Skye said to Pietro. “Maybe I could come over this weekend? Meet the fam?”

“That would be excellent,” Pietro said. “I’ll ask Phil tonight.”

“Where do you live, anyway?” Grant took another drag and spoke on the exhale. “Must be somewhere outside of town if you guys have all those horses.” 

Pietro turned to Grant, feeling relieved that Grant seemed to be finally letting his hostility go. He wasn’t sure he really liked Grant and Brock, but he _wanted_ to like them because they were important to Skye. He also wanted to prove that he could make it in high school and didn’t need to be taught at home like the rest of Phil’s kids. Being friends with Grant and Brock would be a step in the right direction. “I will text all of you my address,” Pietro said magnanimously, “maybe you can all visit this weekend? I’m sure Phil would not mind.”

“Damn, that’d be great!” Brock beamed at Pietro. He slapped Grant on the back. “Wouldn’t that be excellent Grant? Maybe we could ride the horses!”

“Yeah,” Grant’s smile wasn’t quite so bright. “We could meet your brothers. Bruce, Steve, Tony…”

“My sister Wanda, and Natasha as well,” Pietro clarified. “And the others, Clint and Bucky.” 

“Bucky’s a weird name.” 

Brock shot Grant a look. “I’m sure he’s a really cool guy. I can hardly wait to meet him—and the others.” He was still smiling like he’d just been handed a million bucks. 

“Wow,” Skye drawled. “You’re pretty excited to meet Pietro’s family.” She was looking at Brock with some suspicion. 

“They sound cool,” Brock shrugged. “It’s always nice to meet new people, right Grant?”

“Sure,” Grant agreed. He looked back at the school. “Hey Pietro, that your bus?”

“Yeah.” Pietro scooped up his bag, once again feeling no small amount of relief that he had an excuse to leave Brock and Grant’s company. He kissed Skye quickly and started to dash across the road.

“See you tomorrow!” Brock yelled to him. “And don’t forget to text your address!”

Pietro waved his hand to let him know he’d heard and ran onto the bus and grabbed his usual seat. It was only after he sat down that he realized that he’d forgot to mention that Jonas was staying there as well. 

_It should not matter,_ he thought to himself. It wasn’t like Brock and Grant would really care who Pietro had said would be there or not. He pulled out his StarkPhone to text his address and grimaced. He really wasn’t sure if he wanted Brock and Grant to come to his house. But a promise was a promise, and Brock certainly sounded excited at the idea of getting to ride a horse. Maybe it would be easier to get to know him and Grant once they were all away from school. 

And he couldn’t be sorry about the idea of Skye coming to visit. 

Grinning happily he sent off the text, wishing it was Friday and the weekend was already there.

* * *

It had taken all week to leach the tannins out of the acorns they’d collected, but after a taste test, Mr. Odinson had declared them fit for stage two of preparing their bannock. 

Bucky was in the kitchen with Wanda and Jonas, keeping an eye on the acorns in the oven. Their job was to heat them up until they were dry enough to make meal, but not so hot that they burnt. It was a pretty boring task. 

Clint and Natasha had somehow managed to get the better end of the deal and they were out in Natasha’s garden with Mr. Odinson, scouring it for anything edible that they could use as part of their planned vegetarian meal. The activity was part cooking class, part outdoor education and part understanding of the world of Native Americans just after colonization but before the horrors of reservations and residential schools. They’d be studying that part next week. Bucky wasn’t really looking forward to it. He knew it’d been awful, but he also knew that it was important to learn. 

But Steve would be back for fall reading week tomorrow night, so at least he’d be able to talk to Steve about the worst parts. He smiled as he thought about his boyfriend. It’d be so good to have him home.

Wanda opened the oven and poked at the acorns. “How do we know when they’re done?”

“I’m not sure,” Jonas said in his very proper accent. He was sitting on a chair that Wanda had moved for him, because his hip was still healing. “I only ever learned to roast nuts with hot sand.”

“Sand?” Bucky had never heard of that. “Don’t you end up getting grit in your mouth?”

“The pan has holes in it,” Jonas explained. “The sand comes out as you roast them.” 

“So how does the sand keep hot?” Bucky asked. “And why don’t the nuts fall through the holes?”

“If I had my phone I’d show you a video. But it was stolen.” 

Wanda closed the oven door and turned to Jonas. “I will get you my phone.” She was smiling as she looked at him, and Bucky could see her blush. She dashed out of the kitchen before Jonas could say anything else.

“She’s very good to me,” Jonas said as he watched her head up the stairs. There was a note of wistfulness in Jonas’ voice that Bucky didn’t quite get.

“Wanda’s a doll.” 

She reappeared a moment later, handing Jonas her phone. “Here.” She was a bit breathless from her run up and down the stairs. 

“Ta.” Jonas smiled at her and then turned his attention to the phone. Wanda was still looking at him with her big green eyes. It reminded Bucky of the way that Clint looked at Natasha, and he blinked. 

“Here we are.” Jonas held up the phone so they could all see a video of a man apparently roasting peanuts in a parking lot somewhere in Pakistan.

“Is that where you’re from?” Bucky asked. 

“Yes,” Jonas said simply. The short video ended and he handed the phone back to Wanda. She allowed her hand to slide along his as she took it back, blushing as she did. 

Jonas didn’t seem to notice. He’d withdrawn into himself as soon as Pakistan was mentioned, pulling away from everyone around him without moving at all. Bucky recognized it immediately. It was what he’d done for the last ten years until Phil adopted him. 

It made Bucky uncomfortable to look at, so he went to the oven and opened the door to check on the acorns. A sweet scent floated out of the oven, reminding him of roasted chestnuts. “They smell good. Does that mean they’re done?”

“I don’t know.” Wanda poked one with a fork. “Maybe we should take them out? We can always put them back in if Mr. Odinson thinks they’re still too wet.”

“Good idea.” Bucky agreed. Wanda looked at him and he looked at her. “I only have one arm,” he said after a moment. “Kinda hard for me to put on the oven mitts.”

Wanda rolled her eyes at him as she slipped on the mitts. “I have seen you do many things with only one hand. I think you are being lazy.” But she scooped the tray out of the oven and put it on the stove top anyway as Bucky smirked at her. He glanced at Jonas, but the guy was still somewhere inside his own head, misery hovering like a cloud over him. 

“Hey Jonas,” Bucky gently nudged him in the foot. “You wanna try one? Let us know if you think they’re dry enough?”

Jonas raised his head like he’d just remembered he and Wanda were still in the room. His smile was small and sad. “Ladies first, I think.”

Wanda lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are so kind, Moj Dragi,” she said. She blushed again and tried to hide it by turning away and picking up an acorn. She immediately dropped it, saying something else in Sokovian and blowing on her fingers. 

“You okay?” Bucky asked. 

“Yes. I just forgot that things that come out of the oven are hot.” She laughed at herself. Bucky saw her turn to look at Jonas, maybe to share the joke, but he was still staring off at—nothing. “Jonas?” she said softly.

He looked up again, and this time his smile was a bit more genuine. “Yes, love?”

She brightened at the term of endearment. “Are you sure you don’t want to try one?”

“I’m sure.” He gestured at the one she was now holding without difficulty. “Please.”

Delicately she nibbled on the nut, then beamed and popped the whole thing into her mouth. “These are delicious!” She scooped up a handful, giving one each to Bucky and Jonas. “You must try.” 

Bucky ate his. It had a sweet, nutty flavour that tasted almost exactly as they smelled. He grinned. “Mr. Odinson’s gonna be real happy with us.” He turned off the oven to punctuate his statement. 

“I will go bring him these.” Wanda looked at the two boys, her gaze lingering on Jonas. “Would either of you like to come?”

“I would, but I’ve only got one arm. It’s _so hard_ for me to put on my shoes.” Bucky grinned.

She laughed. “Bucky Barnes you are a terrible liar.”

Out of the corner of his eye Bucky saw Jonas flinch when Wanda said the word ‘liar.’ 

“I’ll come with you. I’d be nice to go outside.” Jonas grimaced as he stood.

“I will bring your shoes!” Wanda dropped the acorns back on the tray and dashed to the front door to grab the pair of sneakers Jonas was borrowing from Steve. 

“Ta,” Jonas said absently. His head was still somewhere else.

Wanda was back, kneeling at Jonas’ feet to help him put his shoes on. “You don’t need to do that,” he muttered.

‘Your hip is sore and your wrist is broken. This is not something you can do.” Her hands drifted over his ankle.

Jonas stroked her head in an obvious gesture of thanks. “You’re very kind.” 

She looked up at him with total adoration and suddenly, Bucky got it. Wanda was in love with Jonas. Completely and utterly head-over-heals in love with the sad English guy, and Jonas had no idea. And if Bucky were a betting man, he’d bet his last dollar that Jonas didn’t feel the same. 

Bucky remembered the dark years before he met Steve, and how hard it was to even think about forming relationships. He had been weighted down with so much pain and sadness that there was no room for anything else but trying to hold himself together. It was totally obvious that Jonas was in that kind of place, and if his reaction to the word ‘liar’ meant anything, he wasn’t going to talk about whatever happened to him, either. 

But Wanda didn’t seem to have any idea that Jonas was an emotional wreck and she’d gone and fallen for him. 

Bucky winced internally as he watched Wanda tie Jonas’ laces. The poor girl was headed for a world of hurt. He thought about telling her, but then shook his head. He wasn’t good with that kind of stuff and he’d probably just make everything worse. But Steve was coming tomorrow, and he was really good with people. Bucky would tell Steve and Steve would know what to do. Bucky sighed in relief. He could help Wanda without having to say anything directly to her. Everything would be okay.

He scooped a few now-cool acorns in a Tupperware for Wanda to take outside.

“Ready?” She said softly to Jonas as she took his hand. Jonas seemed to think it was to help steady him as he walked with his sore hip, but Bucky could see that to Wanda it meant so much more. 

“Yes,” Jonas smiled at her, and once again Wanda glowed with it. It was almost painful to watch. 

He frowned as he watched Jonas and Wanda heading out, acorns in hand.

* * *

Peggy’s mobile rang while she was in the middle of texting a message to Phil. She and Angie were in their hotel room in London, waiting for news from the Metropolitan Police. She had been telling him about their fruitless search for Vision in London and how, if she and Angie didn’t hear anything useful from the Police soon, they’d be heading to Dorset to see if there was any sign that Vision had attempted to find his grandmother. 

The number was listed as ‘unknown,’ and Peggy’s heart seized in her chest. Metropolitan Police had unknown numbers. “Hello?”

“Ms. Carter?”

“This is she, Detective Falsworth,” Peggy said tightly. “How can I help you?”

“It’s perhaps how I can help you, Ms. Carter. It took a while, but we’ve finally found some evidence of your cousin’s actions at Heathrow. Apparently he took a six p.m. American Airlines flight to New York City. I was able to confirm with our partners in the U.S. that Vision Jarvis cleared customs at JFK Airport that same Thursday at two fifteen p.m. local time.”

Peggy blinked. “What?”

“He went to New York almost two weeks ago,” Falsworth repeated. “It explains why we couldn’t find him in London. He actually hasn’t been here.” 

Angie was looking at her, wide eyed. “What did he say?”

Peggy waved her off. “He went to New York? New York City?”

“Oh my God!” Angie exclaimed, “He’s in _New York?”_

“JFK International Airport is in New York City, is it not? The Americans were kind enough to see if they could trace his movements after that point, and apparently after he gathered his things from baggage claim he left the Airport. It seems that he went looking for you, Ms. Carter, just as you went looking for him.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Detective,” Peggy said absently. Her head was spinning with the news she’d just been given. _He went to New York!_ Falsworth was right. He’d gone looking for her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, actually,” he said quietly. “I truly hope you find him. You’ll let me know, if you do?”

“ _When_ I find him I will be delighted to send you a message,” Peggy said with certainty. “If you’ll please excuse me.”

“Of course. Good luck Ms. Carter. Safe trip home.”

“Thank you, Detective,” she said and hung up. 

Angie was looking at her wide-eyed. “He’s in New York? He’s been in New York all this time?”

“Apparently so.” Peggy moved her suitcase to the bed and started refolding her clothes. Angie caught on immediately and, grabbing her own suitcase, started doing the same. 

“Fuck me,” Angie whistled. “I can’t believe he’s been in New York! Why the hell hasn’t he tried to contact you?”

“No idea,” Peggy said tersely. She’d been thinking the exact same thing. Why hadn’t he attempted to write or call or do _anything_ to let her know that he was coming? 

“I mean, he musta known you’d meet him at the airport if he told you, right? That you’d be happy he was coming?”

Peggy stopped her folding as the truth of Angie’s words struck her. “Oh my God.”

Angie dropped her clothes and went to her. “Peg, what’s wrong?”

“He didn’t know!” Peggy cried. “I never answered his email! He must have thought I didn’t want him!”

“But why would he think that?” Angie said desperately. “And why would he bother to get on a plane to New York if he thought you didn’t want him?”

“His parents had just died. I doubt he was thinking straight. Maybe he thought I’d have to take responsibility for him if he just showed up on my doorstep. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. He’s only sixteen. Adolescents are not known for the logic of their choices at the best of times.”

“And this would be pretty far away from the best of times for this kid.” Angie sat down on the bed. “Poor Vision!”

Peggy started packing again. “The best thing to do is to get home as fast as possible and hope that the NYPD are at least as helpful as the Metropolitan.” 

“Want me to book a flight?”

“Please.” Peggy picked up her phone. “I’ll text Phil to let him know what’s occurred.”

“Get him to ask his police friend for help. What’s his name? Furry?”

“Fury,” Peggy corrected her. “And that’s an excellent idea.” She finished her text and hit ‘send,’ before immediately returning to her packing. “Angie?”

“Yeah baby?”

“Next time I bring you to London, it will be only for the best of reasons. I promise.”

Angie smiled. “We’ll bring Vision with us next time. Make it a trip for the family.” 

Peggy’s heart warmed with the conviction in Angie’s words and with how ready her girlfriend was to call them a family. “I love you,” she said.

“Right back atcha, English.” Angie smiled.

* * *

“There’s no record of him.” 

Phil frowned. He was standing in his office, cell phone pressed up to his ear, looking out as the long shadows of mid-afternoon began to settle over the farm. He could see Clint and Pietro out in the paddock, gathering up the horses for the night. “Nothing at all?”

“Oh, there are a few ‘Jonas Shades’ out in the world alright. Here, Canada, the U.K….” Nick said on the other end of the phone, “but all the ones we’ve found with a birthdate around the time that would make sense don’t match his photo, or they’re all safely tucked away with their families—or they’re in jail, or dead.”

“So he lied.”

“Seems like.”

“Damn,” Phil muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, picturing the circle of Natasha, Bucky, Wanda and Jonas in the living room just beyond his closed door. They’d been playing cards when he’d received the call from Nick and it must have been a fun game because even Jonas was smiling. “He must have had a good reason.” 

“They always do,” Nick sighed into the phone. “And there’s nothing illegal in giving a false name when you’re a victim of a crime. But it sure as fuck would make our job easier if we knew who he really was.”

“Tell me about it,” Phil agreed. He remembered how difficult those nuances of law could be when he was still a police officer. Legally, Jonas had done nothing wrong, but morally? He’d been lying for a while and that didn’t sit well. “Why’d he lie about his name though? He was the victim. Not the perpetrator.”

“Maybe he was the perp—maybe it was a bunch of criminals who turned on each other. Maybe his name would tip us off.” 

Phil laughed, then paused when he realized Nick wasn’t laughing with him. “You’re serious.”

“This is serious shit, Phil. I hate to be skeptical here, especially since the kid nearly died, but I’m thinking we might want to question just about everything he’s told us. A guy willing to lie about his name isn’t going to be totally honest about everything else.”

“I hear you. And you’re right. It’s hard to think of a good reason why he’d lie about his name.”

“Especially for a former P.D.—You gonna tell him you know?” 

Phil knew Nick was asking if he was going to tell Jonas he knew he’d been lying, and he took a moment to consider it. “No,” he said finally. “While I can’t pretend it doesn’t bother me that he’s lied, it’s equally as obvious that there’s something going on. No matter what really happened in that car he _was_ injured and he _did_ nearly die from those injuries. He didn’t make that up. And he’s been so withdrawn here, he barely speaks and smiles even less than that.” Phil shook his head even though Nick couldn’t see it. “I just don’t think it’s the right time.” 

“Fair enough. But I still think you should at least ask him his real name. Don’t you want to know who the fuck this kid really is?”

“Of course.”

“Then you should ask him.”

“If I get the chance.”

Phil could practically hear Nick rolling his eyes. “Jesus, Cheese. You’re letting your big heart cloud your judgement. He might have a good reason for lying, but it might not be a reason that’s good for _you._ Don’t be a fool about this.”

Phil laughed, purposely not commenting on Nick’s words. “You think I have a big heart?”

“You’ve taken in eight kids! Six of them boys! Seven if you count this new one. If it isn’t because you have a big heart then it’s because you’re fucking crazy!” 

Phil laughed again. “I love my boys.”

“That makes one of us. You still sending up your girls for the weekend?”

“Wanda and Natasha wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Phil assured him. “They’re very excited to spend time with you and Melinda in the city.” 

“Well we’re happy to have them. Although between you and me, it’s just more of Melinda’s plan to get me to agree to adopt.” 

Phil smiled into the phone. “Think it’ll work?”

“I refuse to comment until after the weekend’s over.” 

“I’ll make sure they’re on the best behaviour,” Phil promised. “I’ll be dropping them off around seven.”

“Melinda will be happy to see you,” Nick said. “You gonna stay for dinner?”

“Can’t. The other half of the trip is picking up the boys—and Pepper—from university. Steve’s clinical orientation is ending late and Tony still can’t drive, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and save Steve from having to drive in the dark.”

“Not that you’re worried or anything.”

“He’s a teenage driver. Of course I’m worried.”

Nick paused. “And I’m worried about you. You be careful with that boy. Liars can’t be trusted.”

“I will,” Phil said solemnly. 

“Good,” Nick said and then hung up. 

His phone vibrated with a text message right after, and he raised his eyebrows as he read it. Vision was in New York and Peggy and her girlfriend were heading home to try to find him. He debated immediately calling Nick with the news but then realized all he knew about her cousin was his age and name and, unusual as it was, it wouldn’t be enough information for the NYPD to start their search. He sent back a text with a request for more details and she immediately replied that they were clearing security and she would text again soon as she was allowed to use her phone. 

**Safe flight** he wrote. 

Faintly he could hear the sounds of the card game in the next room, and particularly Natasha’s light laughter as she won a round. He checked the time on his phone and saw that it was after four. Time to get the girls ready to leave if they wanted to make it for seven o’clock. He glanced at the door again, listening to the continued sounds of the children laughing and joking with each other. _I’ll give them a few more minutes,_ Phil thought. It sounded like Jonas was still enjoying the game. 

Phil sighed and looked out the window again. He could see Pietro struggling to capture one of the horses while Clint was calmly leading two towards the barn. It made him smile, both at Pietro’s attempts to grab the horse and at how Clint and Pietro were getting along. He hoped that Clint’s good nature would help Pietro feel more at home. 

Just like he hoped Jonas’ friendship with Wanda might help him feel safe enough that he’d eventually want to tell them the truth of who he was, without Phil having to ask. 

But until that happened the tall, blond boy with the sad eyes and the English accent was still a mystery, and he was still a liar.

_Liars can’t be trusted,_ Nick had said, and in his over thirty years as a police officer, Phil had learned that Nick was right. 

But there was something about Jonas, something that Phil couldn’t put his finger on, that made him feel that he _could_ trust this boy. That the lie wasn’t malicious, but desperate. That when he’d been pushed out of that car—or maybe even before—something had happened that had broken that young man. Because if Phil had learned anything in his years as an officer, he’d learned what someone looked like when their world had crashed down around them. 

And if it meant that Jonas couldn’t tell Phil his real name, so be it. Phil would respect that. 

Even if he didn’t like it. At all.

_I’ll ask him his real name,_ Phil decided. There was another peal of laughter through the door. _Time enough tomorrow._

* * *

Pietro swore in Sokovian as he once again lunged for the black horse—and missed. It danced away lightly on its hooves, snorting at it did so. 

“Quit laughing at me,” Pietro muttered. “Stupid horse.”

“She’s not stupid.” Clint came up beside him. He grinned. “She’s smart enough to avoid you.” 

“Thanks.” Pietro frowned. Clint had managed to get all but three of the horses into the barn by himself while Pietro hadn’t managed to corral even one.

“Aw, don’t be sore.” Clint patted him on the shoulder. “She’s just not used to you. I’ll show you how to get her.” He pulled a wizened apple out of his jacket pocket. “Here, offer this to her.” 

Pietro took the old apple and eyed it skeptically. Pietro had been raised in the capital of Sokovia and then, after two wasted years in a refugee camp, he’d spent the last three in New York City. The closest he’d ever been to a horse was the ones that pulled the carriages in Central Park. “She will like this?”

“Yep! The apple’s partially dried, which means it’s sweeter. Horses love sugar.” He nodded towards the horse. “Hold it out to her. She’ll come.” 

Pietro held it out between his first finger and his thumb. “Like this?”

“Hold it flat on your palm,” Clint corrected him. “And then call her. Her name’s Beauty.”

“I will try.” Pietro held the apple stiffly out in front of him and started walking towards the horse. “Hey Beauty. Hello Beautiful. I have an apple. Would you like it?”

The horse stopped her prancing and took a couple of steps towards Pietro, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed at the fruit on his hand. 

“That’s right,” Pietro crooned. Clint was looking encouragingly at him, so Pietro took a step closer. Beauty moved closer, too, and started snuffling around the apple. She kept looking at his face as if deciding if she wanted the apple more than she was wary of this new person in her paddock.

“She’s not going to bite me, is she?” Pietro said to Clint, suddenly very worried about the size of the teeth he could see when she opened her mouth. 

Clint put a reassuring hand on his bicep, holding him still. “Just keep your hand flat,” he said softly, “she won’t bite.”

Pietro nodded. Beauty seemed to make a decision, or maybe it was just Clint’s proximity, but she finally took the apple, delicately lifting it off his palm with her teeth. Her mouth was one of the softest, warmest things that Pietro had ever felt and he looked at Clint, wide-eyed in wonder.

“Yeah,” Clint grinned at him. He started stroking the horse’s neck as she ate. “Come pet her.” 

Gingerly Pietro stood beside Clint. Beauty didn’t move so Pietro took that as an invitation and began following the path of Clint’s hands down Beauty’s neck. She was warm and he could feel her strong muscles beneath his hand. Her hair was short and a bit coarse. It reminded him of when there’d been an outbreak of lice in the camp and the Latverian overseers had shaved his head. His hair had felt just like this when it was growing back. He hadn’t actually minded.

“This—this is not so bad.” 

Clint beamed at him. He leaned against the horse, resting his cheek against her neck. “I love having horses. I got to ride all the time in the circus. Trick riding and sharp shooting; that was my act. Being with the horses was the best.”

Clint’s wistful expression made Pietro think of his own childhood, and how sometimes he felt he’d do almost anything to go back there, before the Uprising. “Do you miss it?”

Clint shrugged. “Sometimes? I had a lot of freedom in the circus. No one made me go to school—or to bed. But I never felt safe. Not really. I like what I have here better.”

Pietro considered the honesty of Clint’s words. “You are not afraid to say what you feel.”

“Not anymore. I used to be. I used to never tell people what I felt.” He grinned. “But then I got better.”

“Because of Sam, the counsellor?” Pietro asked. Phil had mentioned that he and Wanda were going to have some time with Sam to discuss the hard things they’d lived through. Wanda thought it might be a good idea but Pietro wasn’t so sure. It had been difficult enough just living through it the first time. He didn’t think he’d want to talk about it. Ever.

“It was Natasha, really.” Clint gently grabbed Beauty’s halter and started walking with her towards the barn, Pietro falling into step beside him. “I mean, Sam helped me understand what I was feeling, and why, but Natasha made me want to say it out loud.” Clint’s smile turned shy. “Natasha makes me want to be brave.”

Pietro immediately thought of Skye, and how much he cared for her. He could readily understand how Clint had changed for Natasha. “How long have you and Natasha been together?”

“Officially? Since February. But really? I’ve been in love with her since forever.” 

“Forever?”

“Okay, not _forever_ because I only met her about a year-and-a-half ago. But I know I was in love with her from the moment we met.”

“Hm,” Pietro said noncommittally. He’d known Skye for almost two weeks and he still wasn’t sure if what he felt was love. He looked at Clint out of the corner of his eye. “How did you know?”

“That I was in love with her?” Clint grinned. “Easy. It was like everything I looked at was black and white, and then I met her and it was like seeing colour for the first time. She makes me feel safe, and she helps me and she lets me help her and she doesn’t care that my reading’s not so good, or that I’m not going to be rich or famous. She likes me the way I am. Even the stuff I don’t really like she’s okay with. Everything’s just better with Natasha.”

“Wow,” Pietro said, impressed. “You have thought a lot about this.” 

“Sam says it’s important to think about the stuff you feel.”

Pietro shook his head. It was hard enough keeping the painful memories away sometimes. Why would he want to purposely _think_ about what he was feeling if it involved so much pain? He changed the subject. “So, what do you do to keep Natasha in love with you?”

Clint’s face was puzzled. “What?”

“What do you do so Natasha doesn’t stop loving you? So she is not bored? There are many men in your house.” Pietro grimaced as he thought about Skye living with Brock and Grant, and how obvious it was that Grant had a crush on her. “How do you keep her from going to one of them?”

“Uh, they’re her brothers,” Clint said. “That’d be gross.” 

“But they are not her _real_ brothers! Not like me and Wanda!”

“You’re right. More like you and Bruce.”

Pietro conceded the point. “I understand.”

“Our family’s really close,” Clint said. “Bucky’s like my best friend, and Steve is the _best_ older brother ever! And Tony’s really amazing—“

Pietro felt himself shut down. “I do not want to talk about Tony.” 

“Pietro--!” They reached the barn so Clint’s exclamation of frustration was cut off by him having to gently convince Beauty she actually wanted to go in for the evening. After a bit of coaxing, Clint got her to go in. He took her to her stall and settled her in, giving her another apple from the bag on the wall. 

The barn was warm and glowing a soft yellow with the fading sunlight through the windows. It smelled pleasantly of hay and horses and Pietro thought he might understand why Clint spent so much time there. 

Clint turned back to Pietro. “Look. I know that you have problems with Tony because you think he caused the death of your parents. But he didn’t! And it’s not fair for you to keep saying that it is.”

“It was not fair that my parents died!”

“Tony didn’t do it! Stop blaming him for that!” 

“He could’ve spoken to his father—“

“No he couldn’t!” Clint shouted. “Maybe your dad was great, but the rest of us? Me, Bucky, Tony, we all had shitty dads who used to ignore us, or yell at us, or beat us or _worse._ If you think Tony had any control over his _dad_ then you got another think coming!”

Pietro opened his mouth in retort but then shut it again, realizing what he was doing. He remembered watching Skye having to keep intervening between Brock and Grant and how much work it was. His continual fighting with Clint about Tony was putting Natasha in the same position. His arguing was only making Clint unhappy without actually doing anything to Tony at all. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Tony is your brother. I will not fight with you about him.” Clint loved Tony, Pietro realized. Nothing Pietro said would change his mind.

Clint blinked in surprise and then smiled. “Well, good.”

“But you did not answer my question. How you keep Natasha in love with you?” Pietro preferred this topic anyway.

Clint thought a moment. “Well, I do what Phil and Sam said I should do. Treat her with respect, listen to what she says, tell her what stuff I need from her and try to do things that make her happy.” 

“Like giving her flowers?” Pietro asked. He thought that girls liked flowers. “Or maybe chocolate?” 

Clint laughed. “Some girls might like that, but Natasha doesn’t care. She likes it when I read a book she likes, even if it takes me a long time. Or if I do something so then she doesn’t have to do it, like some of her chores, or exercising her horse if she’s tired. Or if I make her a snack when she’s hungry.” 

“That sounds like you are her slave, not her boyfriend!” 

“That’s not being her slave. That’s being thoughtful,” Clint said. “I thought you knew a lot about girls.”

Pietro’s lips thinned. “You are wrong. I do not.” 

“You look like you do. You _act_ like you do.”

“It was the refugee camp,” Pietro said. He wasn’t completely comfortable telling Clint this, but Clint had been nothing but open and honest with him. He owed him the same. “If you were not confident, you were dead.”

“I get that,” Clint nodded his understanding. “It’d be like performing at the circus. If you didn’t look confident the audience wouldn’t want to watch. But I guess in the camp you’d have to do it all the time.”

“Exactly,” Pietro said, relieved that he didn’t have to explain. “So I look confident, but maybe I don’t know so much.”

“It’s easy. Just treat the girl like you’d want to be treated. But listen to them so you actually know what they want. And give them respect.” He paused, plainly getting to something he thought was important. “And _always_ ask before you touch them. Especially hugging and kissing and stuff. And _never_ hit them. No matter how angry you are. And don’t let them hit you, either.”

“I would _never_ hit a woman!” 

“Person,” Clint corrected. “It doesn’t matter if you’re dating a guy. You can’t hit them. Steve and Bucky shouldn’t hit each other, either.”

“I understand,” Pietro said solemnly. And he did, not just what Clint was saying, but the history behind it. His parents had never hit him and Wanda when they were young, but clearly Clint hadn’t been afforded that luxury. He looked at Clint, seeing for the first time the scar on the bridge of his nose, and the way it was bent slightly, like it’d been previously broken. He remembered the conversation in the Target and shuddered. “I think your childhood was not very good.” 

“I was never in a refugee camp. That sounds rough.” 

“My father never hit me.” 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Clint shrugged like he meant it. “It was worse when Barney tried to kill me. I thought that he cared about me more than that.” He lifted up his shirt, exposing a neat red scar running from the bottom of his rib cage to just above his belly-button. “That’s what Barney did.”

Pietro winced to see it. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clint smiled sadly. “I’m safe now.”

“Yes,” Pietro said, suddenly feeling the realization hit him that what Clint said was true. He was safe and Wanda was safe and even Bruce was safe now, too. They all were. Pietro was never going to be sent to a refugee camp, or have to live off the grid or be frightened for his life ever again. “We are.”

“Living with Phil is great,” Clint agreed. His phone _pinged_ and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Natasha and Wanda are just about to leave. She says we should come now if we want to say good-bye.” 

Pietro frowned. “I do not like that Wanda is going. We have never been apart.” Well, except for when he was in hospital with pneumonia, but Pietro didn’t want to think about that. 

“I know, I hate it when Natasha is away.” Clint said mournfully. He patted Pietro on the shoulder. ‘Come on. We’ll go say good-bye and then I’ll go get Winter and Captain from the paddock.” 

“I should help.”

“It’s okay,” Clint grinned. “You can call your girlfriend.” 

“What?” Pietro spluttered. 

“I knew it!” Clint crowed. “I’m going to tell Wanda!” He ran out of the barn before Pietro could catch him.

* * *

“It’s nice of you to keep me company while I pack.”

Jonas was sitting on one of the two beds in Natasha and Wanda’s room, right leg stretched out in front of him to try to keep pressure off his still-healing hip. He’d come up to be able to spend a few more minutes in Wanda’s calm company before she left for the weekend. 

As he’d been made to understand through Bucky and Clint’s enthusiasm, there would be three more boys arriving in exchange. Natasha’s older brothers apparently. Bucky and Clint were very excited about their arrival and, if Jonas was anywhere near who he was before his parents died, he’d probably be excited to meet these three boys, too. He’d always liked meeting new people. But now the idea of having to keep pretending that everything was fine with yet more strangers sounded so exhausting it made him want to cry. 

Crying was the last thing he wanted to do. After his pathetic display in the hospital he’d done everything in his power to keep from breaking down like that again. Phil and Wanda had been so kind, and the others had tried to be so welcoming that the least Jonas could do was to keep himself together. No one needed to hear his whinging. 

“I’m sorry you’re leaving,” Jonas replied honestly. He was trying to stifle the sense of panic the idea of her being gone was causing him. Ever since he’d woken in hospital, she’d been there, offering her kindness and quiet presence. He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to get along without her.

“I wish you could come with me.” She looked at him through her lashes as she spoke. 

“I’m sure having a bloke along for a girl’s weekend might put a damper on things!” Jonas said, hoping he hit the light tone he was aiming for. All he wanted to do was fall on his knees and beg her not to go.

She shrugged and put her sack of toiletries into her bag before zipping it up. “All done.”

Jonas forced himself to smile. “Time to head down.” 

She moved from her bed and sat down beside him on his left, her hip touching his. She took his hand and started playing with his fingers. It felt too intimate, and Jonas’ first instinct was to pull away, but she’d been so good to him. It didn’t cost him anything to let her hold his hand. 

“Will you miss me?” She asked without looking at him. 

He had to swallow before he spoke as the enormity of being alone hit him yet again. He was so awfully tired of how alone he was. “Very much.”

She turned to look at him then, her big green eyes large and full of some emotion that Jonas couldn’t name. “I’ll miss you, too, Moj Dragi,” she said in a whisper. 

It was the third time she’d called him that, and the small part of him that wasn’t drowning in grief wondered what it meant. He opened his mouth to ask. 

Which was exactly the same moment she leaned up and kissed him. 

It took a moment for Jonas to realize what was going on. Her mouth was pressed up against his, soft and warm, hesitant and expectant all at once. It was so easy for him to fall into her. To take all the comfort she was offering and just—lose himself until everything else faded. He kissed her back, his left arm circling her waist, pulling her to him, turning the sweet kiss she’d started into something much more hard and demanding. 

She responded with the same intensity, trying hard to match him even though he could easily tell she didn’t have anywhere near his experience. He might have been educated in the very traditional Pakistan, but he was at an international high school with lonely and bored students from all over the world. Wanda wasn’t the first girl he’d ever kissed. 

Keeping his mouth against hers he pressed her backwards onto the bed until he was covering her torso with his own. The angle meant he was supporting his weight with his right leg and his hip was hurting like a bastard but having Wanda underneath him was worth it. He moved against her, sliding her legs open with his own until he was situated directly between her thighs, pressing up against her. 

She gasped against his mouth and dimly he knew he was probably going too fast; that she might not be nearly ready for this. But it felt too good to actually feel _something_ that wasn’t coated in the thick, dark agony of loneliness, or sadness or grief. 

He nudged his hardening cock into the apex of her legs and moaned with the bright spark of sensation. “You feel so good,” he gasped against her lips. 

“I love you,” she gasped back. 

It was like he’d plunged into the Arctic Ocean. He flung himself upright so that he was well away from her, his mouth and eyes equally as wide as he stared at her. “ _What?_ ”

She sat up too, her green eyes huge. “I love you,” she repeated. She smiled, tentative but so trusting. She reached up to touch his face.

He flinched. 

Her smile faltered. “Jonas?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said weakly. The enormity of what he’d just done beginning to hit him. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t know.”

“’You didn’t know?’ But I thought you felt the same!”

He was gobsmacked. “What?”

“All the nice things you said to me? All the times you touched my hair or held my hand? Didn’t that mean anything?” Her voice had gotten very small. 

“Of course!” He said quickly, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “Of course it meant something. It was me thanking you for your kindness. You’ve been so very kind to me and I’m ever so grateful.” 

He could see the exact moment where her comprehension of what he was saying eclipsed her hope. “You did that—you did _all_ that—because you were _grateful?_ ” Her eyes filled with tears. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because—“ he started. _My parents are dead. My cousin abandoned me. I’m alone and you were there._ He shut his eyes as the horrible rush of tears closed up his throat and burned his eyelids. “Because I lied,” he choked out. It was the only thing he could say.

“You lied?” And now she was angry. “More than your touches and your sweet words? You lied more than that?”

He nodded miserably, knowing that whatever friendship he’d had with her was gone, destroyed beyond recognition. His selfishness in needing her so badly had ruined it all. “I’m sorry.”

“What did you lie—“ She stood, waving off her unfinished question and picked up her bag. “Never mind. I do not want to know.” She headed for the door, her back square.

“Wanda!” Jonas stood and hobbled after her. His hip was aching from how he’d used his leg before. “Wait!”

She turned, anger and hope flashing across her beautiful features in equal measure, and in that second he would’ve given up his life to be able to love her. 

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and he couldn’t stop the blasted tears from coursing down his face. “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen…” He covered his eyes with his hand. 

He felt her as she pressed herself against him, her arms going around his waist. “You said that in hospital, when you first woke up.”

He nodded as he sobbed. It felt like his heart was breaking into a million pieces, turning to dust in his chest. 

“What happened?” she said softly. “Was it being robbed? That they tried to kill you?”

_My parents are dead._ It would be so easy just to tell her, but the words wouldn’t come. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s just…I…“

She sighed deeply enough that he could feel the movement of her chest where she held him. “Maybe you can tell me when I get back.” She let go.

He whimpered at her leaving but made no move towards her. She looked back from the doorway, her expression sympathetic but so much more closed than she’d ever been with him. _I’ve lost her,_ he thought. It was no less than he deserved.

He scraped the tears away from his face, wishing he could erase the shame as easily. “My real name is Vision,” he said before she was gone from him forever. “Vision Jonas Jarvis. Shade is my mother’s maiden name. I’m sorry I lied to you about that. I’m so sorry.”

She flashed him a brief smile that barely reached her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Vision.” She picked up her bag. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

He swallowed. “May I walk you down the stairs?”

“Yes.” She nodded. He hobbled over to her, forcing himself not to wince. After everything he’d just put her through he refused to make it seem like was trying to gain her sympathy. 

“Thank you,” he said, hoping she’d understand how much he meant it. 

She nodded again but wouldn’t look him in the eye, and when they went downstairs she didn’t take his hand.

* * *

“Have a great time Nat,” Bucky said as he gave Natasha a hug. 

He, Pietro and Clint were standing outside in the driveway by Phil’s sedan, saying goodbye to the girls before they headed off for their big city weekend. Phil was still in the house, purposely giving them some privacy before they left. Bucky knew he’d miss Natasha, but he was more excited about Phil’s return trip that would bring Steve back home. 

“Yeah.” Clint came closer, hands jammed in his jean pockets and his shoulders hunched. “I hope you have good time.” 

“Stop looking like I’m leaving forever.” Natasha pulled her boyfriend into her arms and embraced him fiercely. “You know I’m coming back on Sunday.”

“I know.” Clint’s smile was weak.

Natasha kissed him, then said something soft and sweet in Russian.

“I love you, too,” Clint said. “Be safe, okay?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who’s going to be here with Bucky, Steve and Tony. I’ll be with Melinda and Nick. I’ll be way safer. No one would dare touch me.” 

That actually made Clint laugh. “Yeah, Nick’s one scary guy.” 

“I have not met him.” Pietro frowned in worry. “Wanda will be okay, yes?”

“Nick loves girls,” Bucky patted Pietro on the back. “She’ll be fine.” 

“She and Bruce stayed with them while you were in hospital,” Natasha said. “He bought her cupcakes.” 

Bucky laughed. “That sounds like Nick.” 

Natasha kissed Clint again. “Be safe,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I promise,” Clint whispered back. 

Phil came out of the house holding what looked like Wanda’s bag, followed by Wanda and Jonas. Bucky felt his eyes narrow as he saw the two of them. Wanda looked distinctly unhappy and Jonas looked like he’d been crying. Something must had happened between the two of them, and it probably had to do with Wanda’s crush. Bucky pressed his lips together, wondering if he should’ve said something to her earlier. Clearly it was too late now. 

Jonas limped towards the trunk of the car, coming to stand a bit away from everyone else. He wrapped his arms around his torso, broken wrist resting on his other arm like a damaged hug. His face was a mask of despair. 

Phil saw it and frowned. He checked his watch, looked back at Jonas and sighed. “We have to get going.” 

“One moment.” Wanda ran to Pietro and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly, her forehead pressed into his neck. Pietro hugged her back, his expression one of surprise.

“Wanda?”

She said something to him in Sokovian and his eyes widened. He shot a dark look at Jonas and then replied in the same language. She shook her head and the conversation continued for a few more sentences.

“I cannot promise that,” he said in English.

“You must,” Wanda glared at him. 

“No,” Pietro said. “You must promise _me_ you’ll be safe.”

Wanda glared some more, but then her posture softened. “I promise.”

They exchanged brief kisses on the cheek before she went to Clint and gave him a swift hug. Wanda then ended up in Bucky’s arms. 

“You okay?” He asked her softly. He figured she wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to say. 

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly before she dashed to the car. 

“We good?” Phil asked the assembled group. His gaze rested on Jonas until the boy nodded. “Good. I’ll be back around eleven tonight. Call me if you need anything.”

“We will,” Clint called as Phil closed the car door. He started the motor, beeped twice on the horn and then headed off down the driveway. 

“Bye!” Natasha called to them out the car window behind Phil. She and Wanda were both in the backseat. “Clint I’m going to get you something pretty!”

“Bye!” Clint hollered after them, waving frantically until she turned to face forward in her seat. The three boys stood in silence for a moment, watching as the car disappeared out of sight down the winding drive. 

As soon as it was gone, Pietro crossed over to Jonas in three long strides and grabbed him by the collar of his borrowed Jacket. “What the _fuck_ did you do to Wanda?”

“Pietro?” Clint said worriedly. “What’re you doing?” He looked like it was taking all his willpower not to bolt. Clint hated conflict. Bucky could respect that. He wasn’t a big fan, either. 

“Lighten up, Pietro.” Bucky took a step closer, hoping he wouldn’t have to intervene. He hated conflict almost as much as Clint did. 

Pietro ignored them. He shook Jonas by the collar. “What did you do?”

“I kissed her,” Jonas said. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t’ve. But I did.”

“You did more than kiss her!” Pietro shook Jonas again. “You broke her heart!” 

“Hey!” Bucky shouted. Pietro was pulling Jonas off-balance, forcing him to put all his weight on his bad leg. Jonas was grimacing in pain but he wasn’t doing anything to defend himself. “Lay off, Pietro! He’s hurt!”

“He _will_ be hurt after I get through with him!”

“Leave him alone!” Clint yelled at Pietro. 

“Stop it!” Bucky shoved Pietro off with his shoulder. As soon as Pietro let go, Jonas’ leg nearly gave out and he stumbled, only staying upright because Clint grabbed his arm. 

“Stay out of this!” Pietro shouted at Bucky. He looked menacingly at Jonas, hands curled into fists. “Give me one good reason why I should not pound you into dirt!” 

Jonas shook his head. “I have none.”

Pietro growled but he didn’t attack. “I should kill you for this!”

“I wish you would,” Jonas said softly. His eyes were rimmed red. 

“What?” Bucky said startled, just as Pietro repeated: “You wish?”

“I should be dead already,” Jonas continued. “I’ve hurt Wanda, I’ve lied. I lied to you—and her, and I should’ve died in the woods instead of ending up in your barn. I wish you’d never rescued me. I wish I’d _died!_ ” He turned and started limping towards the barn while Pietro, Bucky and Clint started after him. 

“What is he saying?” Pietro said as he watched Jonas go into the barn and slam the door shut behind him. 

“He said he wished he was dead,” Clint said. “Did he _mean_ that?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, “but it’s probably a really bad idea to leave him alone right now.” 

“I think so, yes.” Pietro said. 

No one moved. 

Clint licked his lips. “Want me to go talk to him? I could talk to him.” 

Pietro shook his head. “It is my sister he hurt. I will go.”

Bucky scowled at Pietro. “Not if you’re just going to threaten to beat him again!”

“Fine. You come with me, if you think I am so dangerous.” 

“Well someone should, to keep you from ‘pounding Jonas into dirt.’” Bucky made air quotes with his right hand.

“Bucky, you go,” Clint said, obviously at his limit with all the arguing swirling around him. “I’m gonna get the horses.” He took off towards the paddock. 

Bucky and Pietro looked at each other. Bucky gestured towards the barn. “After you.” And then he and Pietro jogged to the barn and followed Jonas inside.

* * *

Jonas was sitting on a bale of hay in the barn, head in his hands. He could hear the soft snuffling sounds of the horses in their stalls; could smell the warm scent of hay and animal. 

He wished he was dead. 

His right leg was stretched out in front of him to try to ease the aching in his hip, but he knew there was nothing that could ease the aching in his chest. 

He’d hurt Wanda. He’d hurt her for no reason except his own selfishness and pathetic need. He hadn’t even realized she was falling in love with him. He’d been so caught up in his own wretched self-pity that he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. 

His father had taught him to always treat women with respect, but he’d done the complete opposite with Wanda. His father would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself. 

“Dad,” he whispered, feeling the awful harsh sting of even more tears filling his eyes. He was trying _so hard_ to hold himself together and yet all he seemed to do was cry. 

“Jonas?” 

Jonas sat up, quickly scrubbing his face with his left hand, hoping that and the dim light in the barn would hide the fact he’d been sobbing like a baby again. 

Pietro and Bucky had followed him into the barn. They were standing silhouetted by the open doorway, the fading sun of afternoon darkening their faces as it coloured their hair with light. Even with their faces in shadow Jonas could see that they were looking at him with concern.

“I’m fine.” He wiped his face, still feeling the dampness of tears on his cheeks. “I’m just sorry I hurt Wanda.” He really was, so it wasn’t a _complete_ lie for once. Not like everything else. 

“You should be.” Pietro crossed his arms. “You made Wanda believe you loved her when you don’t. You should not have done that.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Kind of a dick move.” 

“I know,” Jonas said. “I didn’t mean to. If it’s worth anything.” 

“Not to me,” Pietro spat.

Wearily Jonas climbed to his feet. His hip was really sore and it was hard to balance without putting much weight on it, but he’d be damned if he continued to be such a worthless git. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Truly.” He stuck out his chin. “And if you’re going to hit me, please get it over with.” He was almost looking forward to the pain. It was no less than he deserved. 

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky stepped into between Pietro and Jonas. “No one’s belting anyone, okay?” 

“I will not hit you,” Pietro said in disgust. “You can barely stand.” 

“Yeah. Jesus Jonas, Your leg’s killing you. Let’s go back to the house and get you some pain medication, okay?” Bucky put his arm around Jonas’ back, helping to support his weight. Bucky, who had only one arm, was helping him. 

Because he was the most useless twat on the planet. 

“ _Don’t!_ ” Jonas pushed him away, stumbling. “Just don’t. _Please!_ ”

Bucky stepped back, both arms raised and his one palm facing out in a placating gesture. “Okay. I won’t touch you.” 

“You should come in,” Pietro’s hands were also raised. “We will not touch you, but it’s better for you to be in the house.” 

Jonas wanted to argue. He wanted to tell them that he didn’t deserve their kindness, but his leg hurt and he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep. He nodded and started hobbling towards the open door. 

There were two people standing in the doorway, their faces in shadow.

“Hey Pietro,” the shorter one drawled. “Is this where you keep your horses?”

Pietro’s mouth fell open. “Brock? Grant? What are you doing here?”

The one called Brock stepped fully into the barn, closely followed by Grant. They were both dark-haired and dark-eyed; handsome in a way that wasn’t inviting. 

“You asked us, remember?” Brock was looking around the barn. “This place is cool.” 

“Pietro,” Bucky said softly. “Who are these guys?”

“We know Pietro from school,” Grant said. “I guess you’d say we’re friends.” His smile looked anything but friendly. “And which one are you, Clint or Bucky?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

“You’re Bucky. Pietro said Clint was nice.” He smirked at Jonas. “Nice cast.” 

“What is going on?” Pietro asked them. “I thought you’d text me to say when you were coming.” 

Grant smirked. “Guess we wanted to surprise you.” 

Jonas felt his heart begin to thump loudly in his chest. There was something terribly familiar about Brock and Grant; the tone of their voices, the colour of their hair. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he knew them. Reflexively he took a step back. 

“So. Where’s the rest of them?” Brock asked, far too casual. “I was hoping we’d get to meet the famous Tony Stark.” 

“They’re not here,” Bucky said. He’d moved forward just enough that Pietro and Jonas were now behind him, protected. 

“What?” Brock whirled on Pietro. “You said he’d be here!” 

“Well he’s not,” Bucky said before Pietro could open his mouth. “We’ll tell him he missed you.” 

“Fuck.” Brock spat on the ground. “That fucking sucks. That _ruins everything!_ ”

Jonas felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach as he suddenly remembered where he knew them from; his entire body was screaming _run, run, RUN!_ as he realized who they were. He had to warm them. “Pietro,” he gasped. “Bucky…”

Grant looked right at him and Jonas saw the exact second when Grant realized who he was in return. “Holy shit. You’re the guy from the bus stop!”

“What?” Brock screeched. “What the fuck?” 

“You _know_ them?” Bucky said. 

“Yes,” Jonas said tersely. “They tried to kill me.”

* * *

“Goddamn it!” Brock was still ranting. “How the fuck can he still be alive?”

Pietro felt like his head was going to explode. Grant and Brock, his _friends,_ had robbed Jonas and pushed him out of a car. They’d tried to kill him. “You tried to kill him?”

“We weren’t trying to kill him,” Brock waved his hand. “He got scared and fell out of the car. It was an accident.” 

Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket and balanced it on his left arm. “I’m calling the cops.” 

Suddenly Grant had a gun in his hand. “No you’re not.”

Bucky dropped his phone. 

Pietro’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

“What the fuck?” Brock said at the same time. “That was for Tony!”

“What am I doing?” Grant said to Pietro. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Pietro. I’m going to put a bullet in your fucking skull. That’s what I’m fucking doing.” He sounded positively gleeful. 

“They have a gun,” Bucky said loudly. 

Brock crossed over to where Bucky was standing and shoved him back hard enough to make him stagger. He grabbed Bucky’s phone off the barn floor. “Fucker!” he yelled as he keyed it off. “He’d already called 911!” He grabbed Bucky by the collar and hit him in the face, Bucky’s phone still in his hand. Bucky cried out, trying to defend himself with one of the martial arts moves Mr. Odinson had taught them. Brock blocked it, trapped the stump of Bucky’s left arm and hit him again. 

Pietro’s heart was racing even as a strange calm descended over him. It was exactly like the refugee camp, when he’d been surrounded by that group of older boys. They were Latverian locals who didn’t like all the foreigners in their country. He’d taken two of them down before they’d grabbed him and beaten him senseless. It was only Wanda arriving with some soldiers that had saved his life. 

He’d never let anyone beat him like that again.

He grabbed Brock’s shoulders and yanked him off Bucky, slamming him in the nose with his fist. Brock lurched back, wiping his nose with the side of his hand. It came back bloody and he smiled. “Now I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

Pietro took a step forward, fists ready. “You will not.” 

Grant swung the point of his weapon towards Pietro, intense like a snake. “No Brock. I will.” 

“No, you won’t,” Pietro felt a cold knot of anger harden in his chest. 

“Pietro, don’t!” Jonas said. He’d hobbled over to Bucky and was supporting him. Bucky’s cheek was already reddening from the blow. 

“Fuck, Pietro,” Grant smirked. “You’re making this too easy.”

“Leave him!” Jonas said desperately. “It’s me who can identify you. Leave him be!”

Grant’s gaze never shifted from Pietro’s face. “Oh no,” he said quietly to Jonas. “You’re all gonna die. You, because you know us. Bucky, because too bad, so sad. But I’m totally going to kill you first, Pietro.”

“You don’t need to do this.” Bucky moved away from Jonas so that he was standing in front of Pietro again, forcing Pietro to take a step back. “No one needs to die. We can sort this out.” 

“Yeah, don’t _shoot_ them,” Brock said. “Let me beat the shit outta Pietro and then we can grab their bank and go. We’ll come back for Tony some other time.” 

“You came here for _Tony?_ ” 

“Yeah, dipshit,” Brock said to Bucky. “What’d ya think we drove out here for? To meet Pietro’s fucking fake family?”

It was like a fist made of ice grabbed Pietro’s heart. He’d told them he lived with the rich and famous Tony Stark. The gun had been for Tony. His careless, angry words had put Tony in danger and the rest of them as well. “Don’t do this. Grant. Please.”

“You’re fucking dead, Pietro.” Grant said in response. 

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Pietro said desperately. 

“You know why! You took Skye from me! You fucking know why!”

“ _Take her?_ She doesn’t belong to you!”

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” Grant screamed at him. “You took Skye from me! _You took Skye!_ And now you’re gonna fucking _pay!_ ” 

“She chose me!” Pietro yelled back. He moved towards Grant, trying to manoeuvre so that he would be in front of Jonas and Bucky and not the other way around. “ _She_ chose me! You cannot blame me for that!” 

“You _took_ her!” Grant was still screaming, the gun pointing straight at Pietro like a dagger. “ _You took her!_ ”

“Pietro, no!” Bucky grabbed Pietro’s arm and yanked him back. There was barely eight feet between them and Grant’s gun. 

“Come on Grant!” Brock said. “Let’s just take their money and get the fuck outta here. We can tie them up or something. They won’t say nothing.”

“That’s right.” Grant’s smiled widely as he pointed his gun. “Because they’ll be dead.” And with a sound as loud as fireworks, He shot them.

* * *

Clint was half-way back to the barn with Winter and Captain when he saw the car pull up. 

He stopped walking, which made Captain snort and toss his head. “Sh,” Clint admonished. He didn’t recognize the beat-up compact that had been parked haphazardly in front of the barn, nor did he recognize the two guys who got out and went inside. 

But he recognized the sensation of his hackles rising on the back of his neck. He didn’t know those guys, but he knew he didn’t like them. 

Slowly he started walking again with the horses in tow. Winter was balking a bit at the lead and Captain was still tossing his head, showing Clint that his nervousness was rubbing off on the animals. Clint wanted to sooth them, but he was feeling too unsettled himself. 

Captain threw up his head, harder than Clint expected and he let go of the lead. The big horse immediately took advantage and trotted off towards the far end of the paddock. He bent his head and started feeding on the grass, like he didn’t have fresh hay waiting for him in the barn.

“Captain!” Clint said, exasperated. He put his hand on his hip, trying to decide if he should bring Winter in and then go back for Steve’s horse, or try to get Captain now and bring them both in together.

Then he heard the gunshots. 

For a split-second it was like he was back at the circus, feeling the kick of the rifle against his shoulder and smelling the sweetly acrid smell of the propellant. He stood for a moment, staring at the barn. Trying to reconcile the sound of gunfire with being at his new home. 

The two men he’d seen suddenly ran out of the barn, dove into their car and took off, the tires kicking up gravel as they peeled away. The bad feeling Clint had intensified and he found himself walking purposely towards the barn, tugging Winter behind him. 

A plume of grey smoke curled out of the door of the barn. It was followed by more smoke, now darker and thicker. The smoke was followed by a lick of bright orange flame. The barn was on fire.

And Bucky, Pietro and Jonas were still inside. 

Clint dropped Winter’s lead and reached for his phone, frantically dialling 9-1-1. 

“Fire!” He shouted at the prompt. He immediately thought of the gunshots he’d heard as well. “And ambulance!” He started running.

* * *

At first, Pietro didn’t feel anything at all.

It was like everything was happening in slow motion. He heard the loud _bang, bang, bang!_ of Grant’s gun as it went off, and then a strange silence in his head like all the sound was muted. He felt something hit him in the left leg in the same moment. It burned, but it wasn’t bad. He could ignore it, like a bee sting.

He was lying on the ground. 

Jonas and Bucky were lying on the ground too, but for some reason Jonas was dragging himself over to Bucky’s side. Bucky was curled around himself, his right hand was across his abdomen, pressing down on the lower quadrant. Something thick and red was welling up over his fingers. 

 

He saw Grant and Brock arguing about something, but their words were foggy and indistinct. Brock was pulling at Grant’s arm while Grant was doing something with his lighter.

_Is he having a cigarette?_ Pietro wondered. It didn’t make sense that Grant would be doing that. 

Grant touched his lighter to the straw bale Jonas had been sitting on and it started to burn. He then lit another bale and then another. The smell of the smoke filled Pietro’s nostrils, coating his throat as he breathed. It bothered his lungs and he coughed. There was so much smoke.

Smoke because the barn was on fire. 

And Grant and Brock were gone.

“Pietro!” Jonas was shouting at him “Pietro! _Bucky’s been shot!_ ”

Jonas’ hands were over Bucky’s, pushing down on the bullet wound on the left side of Bucky’s abdomen. There was blood coating their hands, soaking into the plaster of Jonas’ cast; saturating Bucky’s t-shirt, staining the sawdust beneath him. 

Bucky was writhing and screaming in agony, his eyes were wide and terrified; the heels of his shoes scratching ineffectively against the floor as he tried to get away from the pain.

“Help me!” Pietro got to his feet. There was a twinging in his leg as he went behind Bucky and hoisted him under his arms. Bucky screamed again as Pietro’s actions tugged at his wound. Pietro grit his teeth against the sound and started dragging Bucky towards the door. 

The air was becoming grey with smoke, and Pietro could feel it scraping against the lining of his throat, rubbing his lungs like sandpaper. He started to cough. 

“No, no don’t,” Bucky cried. “Please, it hurts.” 

“Shut up!” Pietro hissed at him. “Just shut up!” He coughed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky moaned. “It hurts.” 

“Help me!” Pietro forced out in between coughs. Jonas was still lying on his side on the barn floor. 

Jonas nodded, and started pulling himself to his feet. It was then that Pietro saw the red tear in the cloth across Jonas’ right hip, jagged and bloody. 

“You’re hurt. Go get help,” Pietro wheezed. He dragged Bucky further towards the door, which was now surrounded by flames. Going through would not be good. 

“I’m fine,” Jonas said. He was standing now, but clearly favouring his right leg. Blood was running down the side of his thigh, staining his jeans a dark, wet red. “And you can’t leave that way. Is there another exit?”

“The back,” Pietro said, hacking. 

He could hear the horses whinnying and banging on the walls in panic as they also smelt the smoke. Pietro tried to push aside their distress as he dragged Bucky towards the larger door that led out to the paddock. _I will come back for you,_ he promised the animals in his mind. He remembered how it felt to be trapped and waiting for death. He wouldn’t wish that terror on anything.

“Let me help.” Jonas slipped underneath the stump of Bucky’s left arm and took some of his weight. Pietro moved so that Bucky’s right arm was over his shoulder and both he and Jonas half-dragged, half-carried the other boy out of the barn. 

Jonas was limping badly and supporting Bucky with his broken wrist. It felt to Pietro like it was only adrenaline and willpower keeping Jonas upright. He thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t been hit by one of Grant’s bullets or they all would’ve been fucked. 

Clint was right outside the door. “Help them!” Pietro cried, practically shoving Bucky into Clint’s arms. “I will get the horses!”

The barn was now dense with smoke and Pietro pulled the collar of his t-shirt up over his mouth in an attempt to filter out the worst of it. It wasn’t working and he was coughing in earnest, his eyes streaming from the burning hay and the wood and the heat. 

Nearly blind he managed to located the first stall door and slide open the lock, then the second, then the third, touching each horse as they went by to ensure that the stupid creature actually left and was heading the right way. 

“Beauty, Ginger, Iron, Horse, Mjolnir, Hera, Daisy…” he counted off as he opened each door and felt as the horses ran by. Dimly he could hear Clint hollering for him but he ignored it. Winter and Captain’s stalls were near the front of the barn where Grant and Brock had set the fire. He hadn’t felt them go by. They were still inside.

He was going by feel now, choking on each inhale as his injured lungs protested and forced him to cough up almost everything he was sucking back. _I need my puffer,_ he thought, but it was in his backpack by the door in the house. He’d have to get it later. 

“Pietro!” Clint called him. 

Pietro turned towards the sound, and then realized that was a mistake. He’d taken his hand off the wall and now he didn’t know where Winter or Captain’s stalls were. Or where he was in the barn. 

“Clint! Clint! I can’t find them!” He felt sick at the idea of the poor horses trapped and burning. Like his lungs were burning. 

There was a sound of sirens from somewhere behind him. 

“Pietro! Where are you?” Clint called. 

“I’m here!” Pietro shouted. Only the words were cut off by a violent bout of coughing, which was followed by another one, and another one so fast that Pietro couldn’t pause long enough to draw breath. 

There was something wrong with his leg. The stinging pain had turned into a raging inferno, quick and hot like the fire around him and he dropped to the sawdust like a stone. 

He couldn’t breathe. There was no air and he couldn’t breathe and his leg was on fire and the _air_ was on fire and he was lying on the sawdust, coughing and wheezing and still there was no air…

_I am so sorry, little sister,_ he thought. At least now, even with him gone, Wanda wouldn’t be alone.

* * *

“So,” Natasha said as soon as the farm was out of sight. “What happened between you and Jonas?”

Wanda turned sharply to look at Natasha. She’d been admiring the fall colours of the tree-lined drive and trying to push everything about the tall British boy out of her head. “How did you—“

Natasha rolled her eyes. “The way it was obvious he’d been crying, the way you hugged your brother, the way he looked at Jonas like he wanted to rip his head off…you know, all the little things.”

Wanda laughed despite her heavy heart. She started chewing on a fingernail, trying to decide if she should tell Natasha or not. She hadn’t had a close female friend since her parents had died. The camp was very much survival of the fittest, leaving little room for friendships, and afterwards she, Pietro and Bruce had been in hiding. It was very hard to be close friends with someone when you couldn’t tell them the truth. 

But she really liked Natasha, and as close as she was to her brothers, there were some things that only another woman could understand. She felt a fierce pang of longing for her mother and found herself suddenly blinking back tears. 

Wordlessly Natasha put her hand on Wanda’s knee, offering as much comfort as she could with their seatbelts on. 

Wanda gave her a watery smile. “I miss my mother.” 

“The first time Clint and I had a really big fight, all I wanted to do was talk to my mother about it,” Natasha said quietly. “I don’t think that feeling ever really goes away.” 

They shared a moment of perfect understanding; then Natasha squeezed her knee. “So, what happened?”

Wanda glanced up to the rear view mirror. Phil met her eyes and then pointedly turned up the music on the radio so he could no longer hear their conversation. 

“He kissed me!” Wanda whispered. “Up in our room!”

Natasha’s eyes grew large. “Was he any good?”

Wanda sighed. “Amazing.” 

“But?”

“But he doesn’t love me.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. He touches you all the time! And the way he looks at you—”

Trust Natasha to have noticed. “He said he did all that because he was grateful.” It still hurt to think about it.

‘Grateful?” Natasha repeated. “For what?”

“For how ‘kind’ I’ve been.” Wanda made a face. 

Natasha’s expression echoed Wanda’s. “Ew.” 

“I know, right?” 

“So he’s all like, ‘let me touch you, let me kiss you,’ and it was all because he was _grateful?_ ” 

“Yes.” Wanda dropped her gaze, her fingernail back between her teeth. 

“Wow.” Natasha sat back before eyeing Wanda again. “That still doesn’t make sense. I get that he’s thankful, but that’s, like, _really_ thankful. And don’t take this the wrong way, but how is your being kind different than the rest of us being kind?”

“I guess it’s because I was there when he woke up in hospital.” Wanda felt the disappointment well up again. “We spent a lot of time together. I thought it meant something.”

“For sure it meant something that it was you. If it was only about being kind he would’ve kissed Bucky by now. There has to be something else going on.” 

Wanda chuckled at the idea of Jonas kissing Bucky, but then her smile dropped as she remembered what else Jonas had told her in her bedroom. She’d been too angry—too hurt—at the time to really pay attention, but now she realized how important it actually was. “He told me he was grateful I was his friend because he’d lied.” 

“He lied? About what?”

“His name,” Wanda said. “Jonas isn’t his first name. It’s his middle name, and his last name isn’t Shade, either.” 

Natasha blinked. “What’s his real name?”

“Vision Jarvis. Isn’t that weird?”

The radio shut off. Phil was looking at her in the rear-view mirror, his blue eyes gazing at her with a fierce intensity. “What did you just say?”

* * *

Clint was trying really hard not to break down.

He’d thought it was bad when he and Natasha had dragged Steve out of the woods last winter. Steve had been really cold from the frozen rain and in terrible pain from his broken clavicle. He’d been blue-lipped and barely conscious when Clint and Nat had found him. It had taken a few sleepless nights and more than one conversation with Sam to help Clint get over it. 

But this was way worse. 

There were firetrucks and ambulances and a _ton_ of police cars parked in the driveway and by the barn, all with their lights flashing and people in uniform _everywhere._

The horses were in the far end of the paddock, huddle together for comfort. Clint had counted them about fifty times, still trying to reassure himself that they were all accounted for and none of them had burned to death in the barn. 

It helped him to not think about the sound of the gunfire, or the thick stripe of blood down Jonas’ leg. Or the sound of Bucky screaming from pain, his blood coating Clint’s hands and dripping onto the dirt by their feet. Or the way Bucky’s eyes looked, full of fear and wide as the sky. 

Or how he’d gone looking for Pietro in the barn, practically crawling on his hands and knees in the dense smoke. His ears straining for something, _anything_ that would tell him Pietro was still alive…

“Here.” The officer draped a soft blanket over Clint, gently rubbing his shoulders. “I borrowed it from the paramedics.” He was smiling at Clint, his blue eyes kind. “Seems like you’ve had a bit of a rough afternoon, huh?”

Clint nodded. 

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The officer asked. “I met you outside of the Target when you first arrived here. My name’s Eddie Thawne.” 

Clint tried to smile at him. “You gave me vanilla pudding.”

“That’s right,” Eddie’s eyes crinkled. “You’d just had surgery. How you doing?”

“Fine,” Clint said. Then his face crumpled. “My brothers got shot.” 

“I know buddy.” Thawne’s voice was full of sympathy. “As soon as the last ambulance clears I’ll find out which hospital they’re going to and take you, alright?” 

Clint nodded just as one of the ambulances rolled up. 

“We’re out,” the paramedic called to Thawne from the driver’s side window. 

“Where you headed?”

“The General,” The paramedic said. 

“These kids are all family,” Thawne said to him. “Keep them together if you can.” 

“I’ll let dispatch know.” The paramedic nodded towards Clint. “You going to take him?”

Thawne nodded, the paramedic gave a salute and drove off. 

“Did he have Bucky?” 

Thawne patted Clint on the shoulder as he gently steered him towards his waiting cruiser. “I’m not sure. But your brothers are getting the best care possible right now. You don’t need to worry.” 

Clint nodded miserably. His hands felt tacky with Bucky’s blood. 

Thawne held the rear door open for Clint and helped him inside. “Put your belt on, okay?”

Clint put the blanket on the seat beside him and then did up his belt, staring at the blood on his hands. “I’m getting blood on your seat.”

“It’s okay, I’ll clean it later.” 

Clint nodded again, leaning his head back, listening to Thawne key his radio to let dispatch know he was clearing the scene. Clint’s heart was pounding and yet he felt exhausted. His eyes were burning and all he could smell was blood and smoke. “All the horses got out,” Clint said. That he knew for sure.

“I’m glad to hear that, buddy,” Thawne said. “That was pretty brave of you, going into the burning barn to get those horses.” He started driving.

Clint shook his head. “No. It was Pietro. Pietro went back to get the horses. I just went to get him when—when he didn’t come out.” 

“You went into the burning barn to get your brother? That’s amazing. He owes you his life.” 

Clint thought of how still Pietro looked when he dragged him out of the barn and shuddered. He hadn’t even heard the firetrucks arrive but as soon as he’d gone back out through the doorway Pietro had been taken out of his arms and given oxygen. He’d also had a mask put over his own nose and mouth and he could still taste the plastic. Hearing Pietro cough right after was one of the best things that Clint had ever heard. 

“I was in the paddock when they got shot,” Clint said. “That’s why I wasn’t in the barn.” 

”I remember you saying that,” Thawne looked at him briefly in the rear-view mirror. “It must have been pretty scary to hear.”

_Not as scary as Bucky screaming._ “Yeah,” Clint said.

“Looks like the firefighters were able to save most of the barn,” Thawne said. 

Clint hadn’t been paying attention to the firefighters putting out the blaze. He’d ditched his own mask to help Pietro, who’d been struggling against the paramedics for all he was worth. Clint had clutched Pietro’s hands in his own, trying to help the paramedics work on him. Pietro had been coughing violently, but still fighting to take off the oxygen mask like it was the reason he was so short of breath. Clint had been holding his hands, begging him to stop fighting, _stop fighting!_ so the paramedics could help. He’d only let go when Officer Thawne had moved him out of the way. 

He hadn’t seen what happened to Bucky or Jonas. 

“Will Bucky be okay?” 

“For sure, buddy. And the other two boys as well. They’re going to hospital and the doctors will help them and they’ll be fine.” Thawne looked at him again. 

Clint was pretty sure that Thawne didn’t know which one Bucky was, but he just nodded again. 

“Hey,” Thawne said. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Like your dad? Want me to call him?”

The need to see Phil right that second hit Clint so hard that it almost hurt. He croaked out: “Yes please.” 

“Can you give me his number?”

Clint gave Thawne the number and then leaned back, letting his eyes close. He could smell the acrid scent of the smoke where it clung to his clothes; feel Bucky’s blood, drying and itchy on his skin. Tears slipped through the cracks of his eyelids. He could hear Thawne talking with someone on the other end of the line. 

“Your dad wants to speak with you.” Thawne passed his phone to Clint over his shoulder.

Clint took it, pressing it up to his ear. _I’m getting blood on it,_ he thought.

“Clint?” 

“Hi dad,” Clint said. He burst into tears.

* * *

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Apparently not.” Phil sat back and took a sip from his china teacup. He was sitting in the tastefully-decorated living room of Nick and Melinda’s brownstone in Park Slope, enjoying some of Nick’s special stash of white tea. “He told Wanda his real name before we left for your place.”

“Damn.” Nick shook his head. “Does that teacher of yours—Carter—does she know you’ve found her cousin?”

“Not yet.” Phil frowned. “Her flight won’t be landing for at least four more hours. I hate to hit her with that as soon as she lands, but…”

“She’ll want to know sooner than later. At least you’ll have good news.”

Phil nodded in acknowledgment. “True. She’ll be happy to know he’s been living with me and the kids—even though he’s been so withdrawn.”

“And he lied.”

“His parents just died. Not telling us his real name probably made some kind of sense. But I still wish he’d told us. We could’ve reunited him with Peggy so much faster if he’d just said who he was.” 

Nick shrugged. “Water under the bridge now. At least Melinda can start tracking down his documents and getting his paperwork in order for Carter to become his guardian. She’ll be contacting the CPS lawyers to start the process for his immigration as well.”

“Thank you,” Phil said, heartfelt. He felt a pang at the idea that Jonas wouldn’t actually end up under his care, but he knew Peggy would be an excellent parent for him. He took another sip of his tea. “So where’d Melinda go with the girls?”

“They’ve gone to get take-out,” Nick said. “You sure you can’t stay?”

“I need to pick up the boys from school. But I’ll make time for a real visit when I come to pick up Natasha and Wanda on Sunday.” 

“Don’t hurry back on my account. You know how much I like having them around.” 

Phil laughed. “Why don’t you just give in and let Melinda adopt a teenage girl? You know you want to.”

Nick made a face. “Maybe I already have.” 

“What?” Phil exclaimed in shock. “You and Melinda are going to adopt a girl? Finally?”

“Didn’t I just say that Cheese?” 

“That’s great! I know Nat—“ His phone rang. Phil picked it up from where he’d left it on the side table. “It’s an unlisted number.” 

Nick raised his one visible eyebrow. “Why’re the cops calling you?”

“You think it’s a cop?” Phil put the phone to his ear. “Coulson.” 

“Mr. Coulson, this is Constable Thawne,” the voice on the other end said. “I have your son Clint with me.” 

It was like a ball of cement had just dropped in Phil’s stomach. “Is Clint all right?”

“He’s fine,” Thawne said with gratifying speed, but then he continued. “There’s been an incident.” He then went on to tell Phil the details of what had just transpired. 

He stopped talking. “Mr. Coulson?”

“What?” Phil said. Nick was looking at him like he was about to faint. Phil wasn’t sure he was wrong. 

“The boys were alive when they were transported,” Thawne said as if he was repeating himself. “They’ve been taken to the General. They’re hurt but they’re alive. They’re alive. Do you understand?”

“Thank you.” Phil felt numb, like he’d just shut down that part of himself that wanted to be screaming in horror at what Constable Thawne had told him. “I appreciate the call. Can you please put Clint on the phone?”

Nick was still looking at him with concern, their tea cooling and forgotten on the table. He seemed to come to some conclusion. “I’m texting Melinda to bring the girls back.” 

Phil wasn’t sure what Nick was talking about. “Clint?” He said as he heard the phone get transferred. 

“Hi, dad.” Clint immediately started crying.

“Its okay, its okay!” Phil said desperately. His whole body was aching with the need to hold his son. “Clint, I’m heading back to Poughkeepsie, but it’s going to take me about two hours to get there. I need you to take care of your brothers until then. Can you do that?”

“They got shot,” Clint wept. “Jonas was bleeding and Bucky was bleeding, and he was _screaming_ and I couldn’t help him. And then I couldn’t find Pietro in the barn and it was _burning—_ ”

“I know,” Phil said. “I know. And you were so brave. But I need you to be strong right now Clint. I can’t be there for at least a couple of hours and I need you to help your brothers. The hospital will need to know about Pietro’s lungs and that Jonas has a broken wrist—“

“His cast was soaked with blood,” Clint interrupted. “He was trying to help Bucky and there was so much blood—“

“Bucky’s okay!” Clint said desperately. He didn’t actually know that, but he had to believe it. He had to make Clint believe it. “He was alive when he was transported to hospital, and that’s really good. That’s a good thing, Clint. They’ll take care of Bucky. He’s going to be okay.” 

“Steve should be here. Bucky would want Steve to be here. Can you bring Steve back? Please?”

“Yes,” Phil closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He’d forgotten that he was meant to pick up the older boys on his return trip. The idea of telling them what had just happened felt overwhelming. And he’d also have to tell Natasha and Wanda. “Yes I’ll bring them. I promise.”

“And Tony too?” Clint was still talking. “And—and Natasha?”

The vulnerability in Clint’s voice was heartbreaking. “Yes, absolutely. And Wanda and Bruce as well. Pietro will want them there.” His voice was rough as he fought to keep his emotions under control. “Clint, can you help your brothers at the hospital? Can you tell the hospital staff what they need to know to help your brothers until I get there? Please?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I can do that.”

“Thank you,” Phil sighed in relief. “I’m going to call Sam to see if he can meet you there.” 

“Okay.” Clint’s voice broke on a sob. “Come soon.”

“I will,” Phil said, forcing his voice to stay level. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” Clint said again. 

“And Clint? You were so brave. You were _so brave_ today. I’m so proud of you.” Phil just managed to keep his emotions in check. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Clint said. “See you soon?”

“Yes,” Phil said. “I promise.”

“Mr. Coulson?” It was Constable Thawne again. “I’ll keep an eye on your boys until you get here.” 

“Thank you,” Phil said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” 

“My pleasure,” Thawne said. “Clint’s a good kid. I’m glad to help. I’ll text you my number.” He hung up.

Phil stood. “I’ve got to go. The boys were shot. They were _shot._ Bucky, Pietro Jonas—”

“I get the picture.” Nick stood as well, his one eye as serious as Phil had ever seen him. “But you’re in no state to drive. Leave the keys for the Ford and I’ll have Melinda pick up the boys from school and take them and the girls back to the farm. You and I can leave as soon as you’re ready.” 

“No,” Phil protested automatically. He pocketed his phone and began searching the house for his shoes. _Where were his shoes?_ “I’m fine—“

“Phil,” Nick said, and it was the gentleness in his tone that actually made him pause. “Your sons were shot, Phil. You’re not fine.”

Phil swallowed. “I need to go to them.” 

“And I’m going to take you.” Nick held out his hand. “Keys?”

Phil handed over the keys to the Ford Flex and Nick walked them over to the dining table. He turned. “Grab your shit. Let’s go.” 

“My shoes?”

“By the door.” 

“Thanks,” Phil muttered as he slid them back on. 

“Come on,” Nick held the door open for him. “We’ll call Melinda on the way.” Nick led him out the door, down the steps to their BMW parked conveniently in front of their house. “Where the fuck’s your car, Cheese?” 

“Up the hill.” 

“I’ll tell Melinda.”

Phil nodded and slid into the passenger seat, feeling like he was going to explode from anxiety. 

Nick slid him a glance out of his good eye. “We’ll get to your boys. Don’t worry.” 

Phil nodded again. He swallowed. 

“Hold it together. Your boys need you. Hold it up, Coulson.” It was an order.

“Yes, sir,” Phil said automatically. _Hold it together,_ he thought. 

Nick dialed his phone. “Melinda?” he said when she answered. “You’re on speaker in the car. I’ve got Phil with me. We got a problem.”

* * *

Tony quietly slipped into the four-bed room in the General’s medical-surgical unit. 

Pietro was lying in the first bed closest to the door. He was asleep with an I.V. in the back of his hand and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. There was a pulse oximeter attached to one of his fingers and Tony took a moment to assess Pietro’s oxygen saturation. It was hovering around 96 per-cent and Tony let out a sigh of relief. He made eye-contact with Bruce, pointed at the sat monitor and gave him a thumbs up. Bruce smiled back in acknowledgement of the positive numbers, but it barely met his eyes. He and Wanda were sitting beside Pietro’s bed, leaning against each other. He had his arm around her and she was huddled against him, looking small and helpless and something twisted in Tony’s chest as he looked at her. He waved and she flicked her lips up in an effort close to a smile before turning back to watch the rise and fall of her twin’s chest. 

Pietro had been out of hospital for less than a month. It must be killing Wanda and Bruce to be back in the same position. Tony didn’t like Pietro much, but he hated the idea of him being in hospital; hated what it was doing to Wanda and Bruce. Quickly he turned away.

Jonas was in the bed beside Pietro. Also asleep, and he also had an I.V. in the back of his hand. His plaster cast had been replaced with a fiberglass one in a sober black colour and it looked incredibly dark against the unnatural paleness of Jonas’ skin. There was a couch under the window by Jonas’ bed and Clint was lying on it, sleeping like he’d invented it. Natasha was sitting with Clint, his head on her lap. She was reading a book but she looked up when Tony came in, acknowledging him with a nod. 

Tony nodded back, glad that Natasha and Clint were sitting vigil by Jonas so he’d see someone familiar if he woke up. Tony hadn’t heard the full story of what happened yet, but the parts that Clint had shared sounded like twelve kinds of terrible. Jonas had gotten shot, right across his already injured hip. The hospital had probably dosed him with enough pain meds to keep him unconscious for days. 

Tony took a breath, steeling himself for the really bad shit, and turned around. 

Bucky had been placed in the bed across from Jonas. He was asleep like the other two boys, and he also had the prerequisite I.V. in the back of his right hand which made it seem like some kind of ward-specific initiation ritual. But unlike the other two, Bucky had another I.V. leading into the crook of his right elbow, the tube full of deep red fluid. 

_Blood,_ Tony’s brain supplied helpfully and he shuddered. He didn’t want to think about Bucky being injured enough to require a top-up of the good stuff. 

But for once, it really wasn’t about him.

Tony grabbed a spare plastic chair and brought it over to where Steve was sitting beside Bucky’s bed. Steve was hunched over, arms over his head like he was warding off a blow. Which, if Tony thought about it, he kind of was. 

“Hey.” He sat down next to Steve, close enough that their hips were touching. Tony crossed his arms.

Steve sat up. “Oh, hey, Tony.”

Tony gestured towards Bucky’s supine form with his chin. “Well this fucking sucks.”

Steve huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah.” 

Even in the low light of the room Tony could tell Steve had been crying. It caused an answering tightness in Tony’s chest and he cleared his throat. “So how’s our boy doing?”

“Surgery went well. They found the bullet and it was intact. It was lodged in Bucky’s oblique muscle so there was no damage to any internal organs,” Steve recited like the nurse he was training to be. “So except for the blood loss and the risk of infection he should be fine.” 

“Except for the blood loss and risk of infection,” Tony echoed. “Great.” 

“Could be worse.” 

“You’re doing that thing where you pretend to smile but aren’t,” Tony said. “Don’t do that. Just be sad. It’s okay.” 

Steve smiled for real. “Okay.” 

“He’s going to have another left-sided scar,” Tony said.

“I don’t think that’s the biggest worry right now.” 

Tony shrugged. “It’s just not fair. I mean, he’s already lost his left arm. How much punishment can one side of the body take?”

Steve leveled a look at him. 

“Okay. Not that getting shot on the _right_ would’ve been so much better. There’s more stuff on the right. Liver, pancreas. Yeah, left side is probably okay.”

“I can’t believe he got shot.” Steve balled his fists on his thighs. “He was at home. He’s meant to be safe at home. He should’ve been _safe._ ” 

“Yeah.” Tony put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. “This never should’ve happened.”

“I should’ve been there.” 

It was Tony’s turn to level a look at Steve. “And how would’ve that have helped? Dude had a _gun._ You suddenly develop super healing powers I don’t know about?” He crossed his arms again.

“I should’ve been there!” Steve repeated. “I could’ve done something. Fought them off.”

“You fight like a coke machine.” 

“Is this a fucking joke to you?” Steve’s glare was epic.

“Not even slightly,” Tony said. “I love Bucky. Not in the same hearts and flowers way as you, but I love him. The idea of this happening to him—” Something got caught in his throat and he had to stop talking to cough. 

“I wish it was me.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How would’ve you getting shot be any better?”

“It’d be better than Bucky!” Steve gestured at his boyfriend, still blissfully unconscious on the bed. “I’d give _anything_ for it to be me there. For him to be okay…” 

“Don’t cry. Please.” Tony fished around his pockets with his good hand. “I don’t have anything close to a Kleenex for you.” 

Steve wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “God. This _sucks._ ”

“I feel you,” Tony muttered. “You want me to get Phil?”

Steve shook his head. “He and Sam are talking with the officer who brought Clint here.”

“Phil’s getting the low-down, huh?”

Steve nodded. “I think the officer spoke with Jonas after they patched up his hip. At least that’s what Clint said.”

“It will be good to know what actually happened.” 

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the beeping of Pietro’s O2 Sat monitor and the quietly reassuring sounds of sleeping boys breathing. Tony looked at Bucky again. His brother’s skin was pale with dark rings circling the skin under his eyes. His lips were the lightest shade of pink and the only other colour was from the livid bruise over his left cheekbone. Tony realized he’d never noticed how much colour Bucky actually had in his face until it was gone. 

“He must have been frightened,” Tony said quietly.

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice was tight. 

“He probably wanted to fight them off. Probably even tried if the bruise on his face means anything.”

“It’s on the left side,” Steve said. “It would’ve been harder for him to defend himself on that side.” 

“Bastards.” Tony pressed his lips together. “Sons of bitches.” 

“I should’ve been there,” Steve said again.

“He needs another arm.” Tony sat up as the epiphany struck him. He’d talked about making Bucky an arm before. Hell, he was in university studying biology just for that purpose, but until that second he hadn’t realized exactly how much Bucky needed one. Bucky was so capable with only his right arm that it was easy to forget that he was actually disabled. 

Clearly Bucky’s disability hadn’t escaped the notice of the assholes who’d done this. They’d attacked him precisely because he was missing his arm. He hadn’t stood a chance. 

It was a goddamn miracle he was still alive.

“Fuck me,” Tony murmured. His half-assed approach to making Bucky an arm had left his brother vulnerable to attack. He’d been hurt—nearly killed—because of it. It was Tony’s fault that he’d gotten shot. He stood. “I need to go back to the farm.” 

Steve looked up at him. “What?”

“The farm,” Tony repeated. He was feeling itchy with the need to get started on Bucky’s prosthetic, like his skin wasn’t fitting properly anymore. “I need to get to my workshop.” 

“It’s almost eleven o’clock!” 

“I work better at night.” Tony pulled out his phone. “Think I should ask Pepper to drive me? Maybe I should just call a cab.”

“Tony!” Steve stood as well. “You can’t go to your workshop now.”

“Of course I can.” 

“No, you can’t! Your wrist is broken.” 

“Bucky does fine with only one hand.” Tony grimaced, immediately remembering his new task. “Okay. He does reasonably well as long as there’s no guns involved. But I’m sure I can do almost as well as he does. Not that I’d do better with a gun, because you can’t really fight those off bare-handed, but still fighting with two arms—” 

“Tony, stop!”

“Steve!” Tony exclaimed. “Bucky needs another arm and it’s not going to make itself! Let me text Pepper—“

“I don’t want you to go.”

Tony stopped texting. “Really?”

Steve nodded wretchedly. 

“Oh.” Tony sat back down. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered. He sat as well. 

“I’m going to work on it tomorrow though. He needs another arm. So as soon as Buckster wakes up I’m Audi.” 

Steve smiled softly. “Thank you,” he said again.

Tony shifted in the seat, wishing the itchy feeling would go away. It was like a strange combination of helplessness and guilt that made him want to run screaming right to his workshop. Burying himself in designing the perfect prosthetic arm would fix him right up. Either that or a glass of scotch. It was a scary thought. Tony hadn’t even touched the outside of a bottle of booze since he’d nearly died of alcohol poisoning over a year ago. 

But right now he’d give his left arm to drown himself in a glass. Or seven. 

His left arm. Sure. Just like Bucky. Bucky who’d been shot because Tony hadn’t made him an arm. 

The feeling of itchiness intensified. Tony swallowed. He took out his phone. “I’m just going to do a little research,” he mumbled. He logged into MSMU’s on-line library and wrote ‘University of Melbourne, Stentrode.’ He’d read about some pretty amazing things the Aussies were doing with electrodes implanted into the brain through the blood vessels that allowed people to manipulate prosthetics. He could work with that. He pulled up the first article and started reading.

* * *

“I can’t _believe_ we’re at this hospital _again!_ ”

“I hear you,” Sam said.

Phil and Sam Wilson, Phil’s close friend and the counsellor for Phil’s children, were standing in one of the hospital’s ‘quiet rooms.’ The rooms were reserved for people who needed a private place to receive bad news or somewhere isolated to have a breakdown. Right now Phil was engaged in the latter after having heard the former from Officer Thawne. He was pacing the room, raging.

“We’ve been at this hospital five times in two years. _Five!_ And that’s not including Pietro’s hospital stay in New York!” 

“I hear you.” 

“I’m sick of it, Sam! I’m _sick_ of the constant illness and injury and accidents and—They got _shot_ Sam! They were _shot!_ How can that even _happen?_ ”

“I don’t know.” 

“It’s because they’re boys,” Phil continued to rant. “Natasha’s never gotten shot. She’s never broken her wrist or—or gotten pneumonia! Nick is completely right on this. I should _never_ have adopted any boys!”

“I get that,” Sam said. He was leaning up against one of the walls, arms crossed, watching Phil pace.

“They were Pietro’s _friends_ Sam! People he _trusted!_ How could they do that to him?”

“I don’t know.” 

“And they were coming after Tony! Like Tony doesn’t have enough shit in his life! They brought a _gun!_ ”

“Those kids made some real messed up choices.” 

“And they were boys.” Phil waggled his finger at Sam. “Boys are bad news. They cause problems and fight and get hurt—“ He broke off with a sharp exhale. 

“I don’t have any kids,” Sam said quietly, “but I bet it’s awful to see them in pain.”

“Awful is right!” Phil started to pace again. “You should’ve heard Clint on the phone. He sounded destroyed. Worse than when he had to rescue Steve from the woods. He might not get over this one.”

“Clint’s pretty resilient,” Sam said mildly. “And he’s got a close family that loves him. He’ll be okay.”

“Well, Steve might not!” Phil spat. “Did you _see_ the way he looked when he saw Bucky?”

“Yeah, I did. It was rough—but Bucky’s alive and he’s going to be okay. We can help Steve focus on that.”

Phil scowled at Sam. “Bucky was _shot_ Sam. He needed surgery and a blood transfusion and he’s going to be in hospital for a while. I don’t know if Steve’s going to be able to focus on Bucky being ‘okay.’” 

“Then our job is to help him,” Sam repeated. “We can’t change what’s happened but we can help them get through it.”

“They’re just kids! _Kids!_ Steve’s barely eighteen years old! None of them should be dealing with this shit!” He shook his head. “I can’t _believe_ this keeps happening.”

“A lot of shit’s happened in the last couple of years.”

“It’s because they’re boys,” Phil said again. “Stupid fucking teenage boys without a single brain-cell between them! Tony nearly killed them all in a car crash! You remember that? Or when he sliced open his palm? Or when Clint broke his wrist because he and Bucky were running down the middle of the fucking road? Steve fell off his horse during an _ice storm_ —Did you know that Pietro got pneumonia because he refused to go to the doctor? It’s true,” he continued at Sam’s look. “Bruce told me. Of course that was before Bruce broke his hand hitting a fucking _wall_ …”

“And you weren’t there for any of it,” Sam said.

Phil whirled on him. “What?”

“You’ve haven’t been there for any of these illnesses or injuries,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “You haven’t been able to stop any of it. That must feel pretty bad.”

Phil opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. He sagged down onto one of the oversized armchairs and dropped his head into his hands. 

He heard the creak of the stiff fabric as Sam took a seat opposite him. “Your boys have been hurt. They’ve been hurt a lot, even before you met them they were getting hurt. And you haven’t been able to protect them from any of it. I don’t know how that feels, but I’m sure it feels pretty bad.”

“You have no idea,” Phil murmured through his hands. “My boys. Scared. Hurting. And I’m not there. I’m _never_ there.”

“You’re a good dad, Phil,” Sam said.

Phil scoffed and raised his head. “A good father _protects_ his children Sam! I haven’t protected them from anything.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“I’ve never been there when the bad things happen. You know that. You just said it yourself!”

“But you’re always there, after,” Sam said softly. “You’re always there to put on the Band-Aid and pick up the pieces. That’s kind of important.”

“Not as important as stopping the bad thing from happening.”

Sam shrugged again. “Shit happens, Phil. Some stuff you can’t prevent. Even if you’re there.” 

“I could’ve stopped Bucky from getting shot,” Phil said. “Or Pietro or Jonas. I could’ve been the one to go back into the barn to get the horses.”

“Maybe it would’ve worked out that way, maybe not. But you _weren’t_ there, and you probably won’t be there the next time something happens, either. That’s just not the way life works.”

“Then what’s the point?” Phil snapped. “What’s the point of me being their dad if I can’t protect them from any of the bad shit that happens?”

“Because you help pick them back up,” Sam said fiercely. “Because a good dad helps his children learn how to survive the bad stuff so they can carry on. So they can _always_ carry on. _That’s_ the point.”

Phil rested his fingers over his mouth, thinking. It hurt to know that he hadn’t been able to protect his children from all the terrible things they’d suffered. They’d been through so much and Phil hadn’t been able to stop any of it from happening. But he also knew that Sam was right. The only certain thing in life was that nothing was certain. If his children didn’t learn how to deal with both the good and the bad they’d end up having no life at all. 

“I just wish it was easier,” he said finally. 

“Me, too,” Sam sighed. “But at least you’re there for them. After.” 

“Yeah,” Phil sighed as well. “There is that.”

“Small mercies,” Sam said.

* * *

Jonas woke with a start.

He’d been dreaming about his parents again. But this time the house had changed into the barn at the farm, and he’d watched in horror as it’d gone up in flames, his parents trapped inside…

It took him a moment to remember that he was in a hospital bed, in the same room as Pietro and Bucky, because they’d all been shot the day before. He shuddered at the memory; at the way Bucky looked with blood pooling around his abdomen; at the way he’d been screaming. 

He forced the thoughts out of his head and took in his surroundings. It was still early morning if the light was any indication. He assumed that the other two boys were still asleep because the curtains were pulled shut around their beds. 

There were two people on the couch under the window by his bed. One was sleeping, her arm pillowing her head as she curled up in one corner of the seat. The other was looking at him; brown eyes shiny with tears. 

“Vision,” she said.

“Peggy?” Jonas’ eyes went wide. “You’re here.”

Peggy got up and moved to him, lowering the bedrail and then sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I would’ve been here a lot sooner if I’d known you were coming.” Her smile was sad and she wiped at her eyes. “Damn. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

“Why are you crying?” He asked stupidly. 

“Because I couldn’t find you. Because I found out your mother and father were dead and that you were missing and I had no idea where you were. I’ve been so worried.” 

“I sent you an email,” he said. “Didn’t you get it?”

“The one that said you were flying to London, yes. If you sent another one after that I never received it.”

He blinked, trying to remember. Everything after his parents died was so blurry in his mind. “I don’t know what I did,” he said honestly. “I don’t know if I sent one or not.” 

“Angie and I travelled to London to try to find you, and we only just got back after learning from the Metropolitan police that you’d flown here. If you hadn’t told Wanda your real name I think I’d still be looking.” 

Jonas immediately felt sick from guilt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told them my real name, but I didn’t and I don’t even know why. I didn’t know you’d be looking for me.” 

A crease appeared between Peggy’s eyes. “Why ever not?”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Jonas said honestly. “You never answered my email and I thought—“ He broke off as his eyes filled with tears.

“You can’t possibly have believed that!” Peggy exclaimed. “How could you have ever thought that?”

Jonas shook his head, feeling too overwhelmed to speak. He’d truly expected to never see any of his family again. Peggy hadn’t met him at the airport. He thought she wasn’t coming. He thought he was alone…

“Oh darling.” Peggy took Jonas into her arms, careful of his old and new injuries and the I.V. still in his hand. “I’m so sorry you thought I didn’t want you. I do. I do want you. And even though this is the absolute worst of circumstances, I’m so glad you’re here.”

He cried against her shoulder, his own shoulders shaking as he wept. “They’re dead,” he sobbed. “Mum, dad, they’re dead and I miss them Peggy, I miss them so much.” 

“I know honey. I know. I miss them too.” She rubbed his back the way his mother used to and it made him cry harder. 

“Their car went off the road. They went off the road and the car was smashed and they must have been so frightened and in so much pain and I wasn’t there. I should’ve been with them.”

“Oh no. No you can’t say that,” Peggy said forcefully. “You meant everything to Ana and Edwin. It would’ve been so much worse for them if you’d been there too. It would’ve been awful if you’d died.” 

Jonas wasn’t so sure of that. Ever since his parents had died he’d been wishing he’d been with them. “But I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye,” he said instead. He could barely get the words out through his tears.

“They knew you loved them.” Peggy was rocking him gently, like he was a much younger child. “Just like you know they loved you. Of that I am certain.”

“I wasn’t there,” Jonas repeated. 

“And thank God for that.” Peggy’s voice cracked as she spoke. “I don’t think I could’ve borne to lose you, too.”

Jonas hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought about what it would mean to the rest of the family if he’d died as well. But then again he’d been too busy thinking that he was totally alone. 

“Losing your parents is one of the worst things in the world,” Peggy said after a few moments of silence. “After my father died I felt like I’d lost my place in the world. Like the rock that kept me anchored was gone and I was just floating away. But I wasn’t alone. I still had Michael and my mother and my aunt, and Ana and Edwin and you. It didn’t stop the pain but it helped. It helped knowing that there were others who loved me and understood.” She shifted so that she could look at his face, her hands holding on to his upper arms. “You’re not alone either, Vision Jonas Jarvis. You have your grandmother and your great-aunt and Michael and his family, and me and Angie. And I promise you, we will get through this together.”

Jonas nodded as she gently wiped the tears off his face with her thumbs. He took a deep breath and saw that he actually did feel a bit better. He hadn’t realized how hard it’d been keeping his grief a secret until he’d shared it with Peggy. It was such a huge relief knowing he didn’t have to do that anymore. 

“Thank you,” he said to her, hoping she’d understand the depths of his gratitude. The thought made him wince as he suddenly remembered what had happened between him and Wanda the day before. 

Peggy noticed. “Are you in pain?”

“I’m fine.” Jonas shook his head. He was on an automatic morphine drip and he was very comfortable considering he had a bullet wound on his hip that had gouged a trench deep in his flesh from front to back. “I was just thinking about something I did yesterday. I hurt someone’s feelings and I don’t know how to say sorry.”

“What happened?”

Jonas took a breath and then told Peggy what happened between him and Wanda. He told her everything, even how he’d kissed her. “I really do like her,” he said at the end of the story. “But it’s like my heart is numb. I want to be in love with her, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how.” 

“You’re grieving,” Peggy said simply. “You’ll need to recover a bit I think before you’ll be able to fall in love. I haven’t met Wanda yet. I left to find you around the same time that she and her brothers arrived, but from what I’ve heard from Phil she’s also dealt with her fair share of grief. She’ll understand what you’re going through.”

Jonas licked his lips. “I didn’t exactly tell her.”

“You didn’t tell her that your parents died? Why ever not?”

“It was too big, I guess. It felt like if I said anything I’d just…” He shrugged, unsure how to finish. 

“Fall apart?” Peggy suggested and he nodded. “I remember. It felt like the loss of my father was like swimming in a lake with chains about my ankles. It took everything I had to keep my head above water.”

“That’s it exactly. I wanted to tell her, I just didn’t know how.”

“I can tell her. If you don’t feel ready.”

“Thank you,” Jonas said. “But I think I can. Now, at least.” 

Peggy smiled at him. “I’m sure she’ll be very relieved to hear it.” She turned towards the woman on the couch who was now awake and grimacing as she stretched her neck.

“Sleeping on that couch sucked,” she said. “I’m gonna need to see my chiropractor for a week straight to get these kinks out.” 

“Vision,” Peggy said. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend Angie. Angie, this is my cousin Vision.”

Angie beamed at him, her blue eyes sparkling. “Great to meetcha!” she exclaimed. She stood up and came over the bed. “We flew half-way around the world to find you.” 

“I remember you from your pictures,” Jonas said to Angie. “I’m glad to finally meet you in person.” 

“I’m glad to finally meet you, too. Vision. Peggy’s told me lots of good things about you.” 

Angie and Peggy were holding hands, obviously very much in love. It reminded him of his parents and he had to swallow against the sudden thickness in his throat. 

“It won’t always feel this bad.” Peggy stroked his hair. 

“Thank you.” Jonas gave her a small smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

Peggy smiled warmly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Jonas smiled back. “Me, too.”

* * *

Steve woke to the wonderful feeling of someone stroking through his hair. 

“Bucky?”

“Hi.” Bucky smiled at him. His reach was just long enough for the tips of his fingers to be able to card through Steve’s bangs. “You shouldn’t’ve slept here. Your neck’ll be sore.”

Steve moved his chair closer so he could take Bucky’s hand. “It’s worth it to be with you.”

“Don’t cry,” Bucky muttered. He tried to wipe away the tears that were pooling under Steve’s eyes, but his coordination was off, probably from the pain medication he was on. Steve stilled his hand. 

“Careful.” He smiled. “I need those.”

“Your eyes’re pretty.” Bucky grinned dopily at him. “You’re pretty.” 

“You’re pretty, too.” Steve kissed his palm.

“I love you,” Bucky said. Then he frowned. “Sorry I got shot.” 

“It wasn’t your fault. Don’t even think that.”

“I know. Sorry that it makes you sad.”

“I love you,” Steve replied. “It’s hard to see you hurt.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Like when you fall off your horse? Break your collarbone?”

That made Steve smirk. “This isn’t payback is it?”

Bucky smirked back. “Now why would I do that?”

Steve’s face fell. “Bucky—“

“Aw, Steve. Don’t.” Steve felt Bucky tighten his grip on his hand. “I’m okay.”

“You got shot, Buck! That’s not okay.”

“But I’m okay _now._ ‘Sides, they weren’t after me anyway. I was just ‘too bad, so sad.’”

Steve blinked. He knew his boyfriend was drugged, but what he’d said made no sense. “What?” 

“They shot me because I was there. They came for Tony. Well, and Pietro. That kid _really_ wanted Pietro to die.” Bucky frowned again. “Poor Pietro. I like him. It’s too bad his friends wanted to kill him like that. Not nice.”

Steve blinked again. “Wait. The guys that shot you. They were Pietro’s _friends?_ ”

“Well, I wouldn’t really call them _friends_ if they wanted to kill him. That’s not really friendly, you know?”

“I know,” Steve said. “Not friendly. But—Pietro knew them?”

“Yeah. He knew them from school. He must’ve told them about Tony. They came for him. I guess they wanted his money.” 

“Oh my God,” Steve breathed as what Bucky was saying began to sink in. Pietro had talked to the wrong kids at school about Tony. Bucky’d nearly died because of Pietro’s hatred for Tony and his big mouth. He looked over at where Pietro’s bed was, the curtains still closed. “Did Pietro _know_ they were going to do that?”

“No. Of course not. Pietro thought they were friends. And wanna hear something crazy?” Bucky continued, clearly unaware of Steve’s building anger. “Jonas knew them, too! They were the same guys who pushed him out of the car. That’s why they shot him.” 

“Oh my God!” Steve repeated. “How could he ever be friends with people like that? They were going to hurt Tony! They tried to kill Jonas! They _shot_ you! How could Pietro be that stupid?”

“You’re hurting my hand.” 

Steve immediately loosened his grip. “Sorry!”

“S’okay,” Bucky slurred. “I don’t think Pietro knew his friends tried to kill Jonas.”

“How could he not know?”

Bucky laughed. “I don’t think they were wearing a sign.” He shifted and winced before grinning again. “Getting shot hurts.” 

“I’m sure it does.” Steve felt another rush of tears. “Bucky—“

“I’m okay,” Bucky whispered. “Don’t cry.” 

“I just love you so much—“

“I love you too, punk. But I’m okay.” His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Jus’ sleepy.”

“Go sleep,” Steve moved even closer so he could stroke Bucky’s head. 

“Nice,” Bucky murmured. His eyes closed but then he opened them again. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Yeah Bucky. I’ll be here to the end of the line.”

Bucky chuffed out a laugh. “Not on a train, dummy.” 

“Jerk,” Steve said, full of affection. 

“Hey. Don’t be angry at Pietro. Okay?”

“Sure.” Steve didn’t mean it. Anger didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling about Wanda’s twin, but right that second he’d promise Bucky anything.

“Good,” Bucky smiled at him. He closed his eyes again. “Love you.” Within moments he was asleep.

Steve kept stroking Bucky’s head, feeling his rage simmering inside him. He glanced over at the curtained bed again, his expression dark with fury. 

It was Pietro’s fault. All of it. 

And as soon as Bucky was better, Steve would make sure Pietro faced the consequences.

* * *

It had been a wonderful but emotionally exhausting visit with his cousin, and Jonas had fallen back asleep nearly as soon as she’d left. She’d kissed his forehead with promises of coming back that evening with something better to eat than the hospital food and a book or two for him to read. She’d also told him and she and Angie were going to make arrangements for his things to be shipped from Pakistan to their apartment, and apparently they were also going to be buying him a bed. 

He was still trying to reconcile the intensity of his feelings of abandonment with the reality of how much Peggy and Angie clearly wanted him in their lives. His grief was still there, still as sad and dark as it had always been, but underneath it all he could feel a spark of something else, something light and maybe almost happy. In his more optimistic moments, he might have even called it hope.

When he woke again, Wanda was there, sitting on the edge of his bed where Peggy had been. 

He smiled. He couldn’t have helped it if he tried. She was so kind and caring, the beauty of her features completely echoed by the beauty in her heart. He was still so damn grateful to have her in his life. 

She smiled back, but it was tentative. The hurt he’d caused her still shadowing her eyes. “Hello.” 

“Wanda.” He sat up, wincing as he did so. His hip—his whole body—hurt with the ordeal he’d just been through. But he had something important to tell her, and he shouldn’t be lying down. 

“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself” She moved to support him.

“I’m alright,” he said. “You’re so kind.” 

Her lips thinned. “And let me guess, you’re really grateful.”

Jonas winced again, but it wasn’t from pain. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“It’s my own fault.” She shrugged. “I should not have believed that a boy like you would be interested in a girl like me.”

“’A girl like you?’ Why would you ever say that?”

She shrugged again. “I am too skinny and I am not very pretty and my accent…It is okay. I understand.” 

“No!” Jonas leaned forward, ignoring the pain that shot through his hip. “No, you’re wrong! You’re beautiful and perfect and I love your accent. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. You mustn’t think that.” 

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nice of you to say it, but that’s why I like— _liked_ \--you. Because of how nice you’ve always been. But you do not need to say things like that just to make me happy.”

Jonas grimaced internally to hear her using the past tense. He wanted her to like him. He wanted her to believe what he was saying. But then again, he’d lied to her before and then he’d hurt her badly. It wouldn’t be easy for her to believe him now. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should never have done that. You deserved so much better from me.”

“I’m sure you had a good reason not to trust me.” She said it like him not trusting her made any sense at all.

“No!” he said again. “I trust you. I’ve _always_ trusted you. It’s just—“ He took a breath, unsure how to continue. 

“You don’t know me.” Her smile was still so sad. “I suppose that was a good reason for you to not tell me your real name.”

“It’s not just my name. I lied to you about other things, too. And I’m sorry.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Of course you did. I am such a fool.” She stood. “I think I will go see Pietro now.”

“Wait!” Jonas caught her wrist. “Wait, please.” 

She sat back down but wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“My parents are dead,” Jonas said. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. “They died less than a month ago. And—“ He broke off, trying to smile even though he could feel his eyes filling with tears. “And then I was nearly killed and it felt like an awful lot, you know? I guess I haven’t been dealing with that very well.” He attempted a smile again. “I’ll try to do better with being shot,” 

“Oh Jonas.” Her eyes were full of sympathy. 

“I didn’t tell you because I _couldn’t._ I just couldn’t tell you about my parents, even though I wanted to. Every time I tried, the words wouldn’t come. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but—“

She turned her wrist so that their hands were linked. “No, that makes a lot of sense.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The pain is too big for words, so you can’t say anything. I remember from when my parents died. It makes sense.”

“I’m sorry I mislead you.” Jonas was crying freely now, gripping her hand. _It was like the rock that kept me anchored was gone_ Peggy had said to him just that morning. It was the way he had felt, too. Until Wanda had appeared, helping to feel like he was no longer floating away. “I didn’t mean to, truly. But you made me feel something other than sadness for the first time in what felt like forever. And I know I shouldn’t’ve kissed you, and I know that I should’ve told you, but with you I hurt so much less. With you, things were almost okay again.”

“I am so sorry you have been in so much pain.” She was crying too, her eyes a brilliant green with her tears. “And I’m so sorry that I was angry with you. I didn’t know you were grieving. I didn’t know.”

“How could you? I never told you.”

“Friends should know that about each other.” 

The little spark of hope flared brighter. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I would like that,” she said. 

“I would like that, too.” He smiled at her and reached out with his right hand to brush the tears off her cheek with his index finger, careful not to scrape her with his cast. “Might we start over? I’d like to start again, but with the truth this time. Please?”

“Yes.” She nodded solemnly, but there was a small light of happiness crowding out the sadness in her eyes. 

He smiled, feeling a weight lift from his chest. She understood, just like Peggy said she would. And she still wanted to be his friend despite everything. She really was perfect. 

She took his hand down from her face and held both his hands in hers. “So, Vision Jarvis,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.” 

“Okay, Wanda Maximoff,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

* * *

“I brought your pain medication,” Bruce said. 

Pietro raised his forearm off his eyes and glanced over at Bruce before covering his eyes again. “I do not want them.” 

Bruce sighed and put the glass of water and two pain pills he’d brought with him on his bedside table. He sat down on his bed, assessing his brother. Pietro was lying on his bed underneath the window, his whole left side held stiffly as he guarded against doing anything that would irritate the wound on his leg. It made sense that he’d be in pain. He and Bucky had just come home early that afternoon after four days in hospital. Bucky was downstairs being fussed over by his family. 

Pietro had chosen to exile himself upstairs instead. 

“You need the medication, Pietro,” Bruce said. “The pain is only going to get worse if you don’t take it.”

“I don’t care.” 

“Well I do. I don’t want to see you in pain.” 

Pietro’s grimace was visible even with half his face covered. “Then don’t look.” 

Bruce indulged himself with an eyeroll since Pietro wasn’t looking at him. His brother was stubborn and argumentative at the best of times, and for some reason it always got worse when he was sick or injured. It was as if he was sure no one was really going to take care of him so it was better to push them away first. 

Needless to say it was extremely annoying. 

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Bruce said after a few calming breaths. He’d been working with Sam on his anger management and he’d found that mindful meditation and deep breathing exercises helped a lot. The last thing he wanted to do was lose his cool with his brother. 

“Then don’t,” Pietro said. 

Bruce took another deep breath. “Why are you fighting me on this?” Gentle questioning was another technique that Sam had taught him. It forced the other person to explain their thinking and could sometimes even help diffuse the conflict. 

Pietro lowered his arm again. His gaze met Bruce’s and he even opened his mouth to respond before he shut it again. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

That was a veiled request for a conversation if Bruce had ever heard one. “I’d really like to understand,” he said, trying to channel Sam as he spoke. “Can you tell me?”

Pietro turned his head so he was facing Bruce. “You are making a big deal about nothing. I don’t want the medication. There is nothing to tell.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Pietro, you just told me that I wouldn’t understand why you don’t want the pain medication, and now you’re telling me there’s nothing to tell? One of those isn’t true.”

Pietro narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Bruce felt his temper tick up. “Should I be?”

Pietro went to sit up, howled in pain and immediately fell back on the bed panting, coughing and swearing in Sokovian. 

“Okay, that’s enough! You’re taking your medication and you’re taking it now!” Bruce went to his side and helped him to sit up and then pointedly handed him the tablets of medicine and the glass of water. “Swallow.”

Pietro’s eyes were flinty with anger but dutifully he took the offered pills and drank them down. “There,” he spat. “Happy?”

“Yes, actually,” Bruce said calmly. He replaced the glass and then sat back down. Pietro was still glaring at him. “So,” Bruce continued in the same tone. “Now are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“You do not think that getting _shot_ is enough to be angry about?”

_There it is,_ Bruce thought. “Yeah, I guess being shot by my friends would probably piss me off.” 

Pietro’s expression darkened. “They were not my friends.”

“Not really, no.” Bruce leaned his forearms on his knees. “But you must have thought they were friendly enough that you gave them your address and told them you lived with Tony.” 

“ _I did not know what they were planning!_ ” Pietro exploded. “ _Why does everyone think I wanted this to happen?_ ” He dissolved into a fit of coughing. Bruce held the water for him as he took a sip, and then took a hit from his new inhaler. “I _hate_ this!” 

Bruce rubbed his back consolingly as he thought about what Pietro had said. “Who thinks you wanted this to happen?” 

“I have seen the way Steve looks at me now. He is sure it is my fault. It must be the same for the others.”

Bruce tilted his head in agreement. No one had said anything to him but he and the twins hadn’t been there that long. Maybe they did blame Pietro. “You’ve been hating on Tony pretty hard. It’d make sense that Steve and the others might think you wanted Tony to get hurt.”

“I did _not!_ ”

“I know that—I _know_ that, Pietro,” he repeated at Pietro’s skeptical look. “I know how your temper works. If you wanted Tony hurt you’d do it yourself.” That statement got a grudging smirk in acknowledgement. “But you can’t deny that it was your hatred of Tony that helped lead to this situation. If you’d just let it go—“

“Do you think I don’t know this?” Pietro said angrily. “Do you think I did not think of that _every day_ when I was in hospital? Watching Steve cry over Bucky, seeing Wanda with Jonas; knowing every moment that it was _my fault?_ ”

Bruce blinked. “It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is! Brock, Grant, they came to my house with a _gun_ because I told them I lived with Tony Stark! Bucky and Jonas would not have gotten shot if I hadn’t told them! The barn would not have burned—“ He broke down coughing again, Bruce rubbing his back.

“But it’s not your fault,” Bruce repeated when Pietro’s battered lungs had calmed. “You didn’t tell Grant to bring a gun. You didn’t set the barn on fire. Pietro, you nearly died! How could you think any of that could be your fault?” 

“Do you know why Grant shot me?” Pietro asked Bruce seemingly out of the blue. “Because he blamed _me_ for Skye not loving him. He said that I had taken her from him.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Bruce squinted his eyes in confusion. “It’s not like you kidnapped her.” 

“I know.” Pietro spat. “Grant blamed me—hated me—for something I didn’t do. Just like my hatred of Tony got both Bucky and Jonas shot.”

“Um,” Bruce said, still confused. “I thought that Grant’s hatred of you was what got Bucky and Jonas shot. It was Grant, not you.”

Pietro shrugged. “He would not have brought the gun except I told him about Tony.” 

“You don’t know that! You can’t blame yourself for what _Grant_ decided to—“ A thought struck Bruce and he looked sharply at Pietro. “You _do_ blame yourself. You’re blaming yourself so much that you’re punishing yourself by not taking pain medication.”

“I took it.” 

“Only when I forced you!” 

Pietro shrugged again and looked out the window. 

“It’s not your fault.” Bruce said yet again.

“You know that is not true.”

“No!” Bruce stood, casted hand pointing at the other teen. “No Pietro, I won’t let you do this. It’s not right and it’s not fair and I spent too much of my life hating myself for things that weren’t my fault and I’ll be damned if I let my little brother do the same thing!”

“You don’t understand—“

“The hell I don’t!” Bruce yelled. “My father beat my mother to death right in front of me, Pietro! _right in front of me!_ I’ve spent every moment since then thinking I was just like him! Just as much a monster as he ever was!”

“But that is not—“

“No, it’s _not_ true!” Bruce was still yelling. He knew his temper had snapped but he was pretty sure Sam would give him a free pass on this one. “But you know _how many years_ I spent, _sure_ that I’d turn into him any second? It wasn’t just hiding from the law that kept me from making relationships, it was that!” 

Pietro was looking up at him, his green eyes wide with surprise at Bruce’s outburst. “You have not dated because you thought you were a monster?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Bruce ran his unbroken hand through his hair and started his breathing exercises, trying to get himself calm again. “And if you think I’m going to let you do the same thing—“

“But it was my hatred of Tony that made me tell Brock and Grant where he lived. How can it not be my fault?”

“If you want to take blame for anything, take it for hating Tony so much that you told Brock and Grant his address. But it’s not like its any real secret. I’m sure we could find it on the web if we looked.” Pietro didn’t smile the way Bruce hoped. He sighed. “Pietro, it was Brock and Grant’s choice to come to the farm with a gun. It was Grant’s choice to pull the trigger, and it was Grant’s choice to set fire to the barn. You aren’t responsible for any of that. You had no control over Grant. None.” 

“Just like I had no control over Skye’s choice. Just like, maybe, Tony had no control over his father’s choice to sell his weapons to the Sokovian government?” Pietro spoke slowly, as if he was just realizing that now.

“Yes, that’s right.” Bruce nodded, pleased his brother was beginning to understand. “We can only ever really control ourselves, Pietro. You couldn’t control Grant, you _didn’t_ control Skye, and Tony certainly couldn’t control his father. You don’t deserve any blame for what Grant did, and Tony doesn’t deserve any blame for his father’s choices, either.” 

Pietro licked his lips. “I think maybe I owe Tony an apology.”

“I think you probably do,” Bruce agreed. “But it can probably wait until after dinner. I think Phil’s ordered pizza.” 

As Bruce predicted, Pietro lit up at the idea of pizza for dinner. “Does it have meat on it?”

Bruce laughed. “You are the worst vegetarian ever.” 

“Because I am an excellent omnivore.” Pietro grinned, but then his face fell. “You may not think it is my fault, but I am not so sure that the others will feel the same.” 

Bruce’s temper ticked up again and he balled his unbroken hand into a fist. “Then they’ll have to deal with me.”

* * *

Phil was exhausted. 

He hadn’t even attempted to make a healthy and nutritious dinner, instead he’d opted for a huge amount of pizza, pop and garlic bread with store-bought cookies for dessert. He’d bought vegetarian pizza for Wanda and Bruce, so at least someone was getting their vegetables.

Dinner was a subdued affair. They’d all been clustered around the couch in the living room so Bucky could join them. It’d only been four days since he’d been shot and regular things, like sitting, standing and walking were still extremely painful. Phil and Steve had helped Bucky to the living room couch when he’d first gotten home, taken off his shoes and just left him there. He seemed happy enough, but he was still pale and drawn and obviously uncomfortable. 

Bucky therefore wasn’t speaking much, which wasn’t that unusual for him. He’d only been speaking routinely since February after all, but the near silence of the others was unusual. Especially for Tony who typically always had something to say. He’d wolfed down three slices of pizza and then immediately began taking notes on—something—on one of the napkins, lines creasing his brow. Even Bruce’s attempts to engage him were met with grunts and more silence. 

Steve wasn’t talking much either, spending all his time either doting on Bucky or glaring at Pietro. It didn’t take a genius to know that Steve was angry at Pietro, and most likely he was angry about the bullet wound in his boyfriend’s side. Phil exhaled silently. He just hoped that Steve could hold his temper in check for at least a couple of days. They all could really use some solid sleep before Steve decided to let his temper fly.

And speaking of Pietro… he was sitting on the floor in between Bruce and Wanda, his left leg stretched out in front of him. He was only picking at his food. He was also pale and he looked like he might’ve lost some weight while he was in hospital. Considering how lean and muscular he’d been when he’d first arrived, it was weight he could ill-afford to lose. He’d need the energy for healing.

Phil was about to say something, but Wanda got there first, nudging her brother with her elbow and looking at him intently until he picked up his pizza and took a big bite. She and Bruce had been very protective of Pietro since he’d come home with Bucky late that afternoon. Phil was sure they sensed Steve’s anger towards their brother, but didn’t know what to do about it.

Clint and Natasha were cuddled together on the love seat. Natasha had barely let Clint out of her sight since she’d come back from New York. Even though neither of them had said much about it, Phil knew that both of them had been traumatized by everything that had occurred. It made a lot of sense that they’d be so clingy with each other. 

“This isn’t right,” Tony said.

Phil startled at the sudden sound. “What?”

“This equation.” Tony gestured towards his napkin without raising his eyes from the scribbles on it. “I’ve tried accommodating for the variable but it’s still off.” 

“Let me see.” Bruce held out his hand and Tony passed the napkin over. He looked at it while he chewed. “I think I know what went wrong.”

“Perfect. Bring it. We’re going to my workshop.” 

Bruce blinked. He looked at Wanda and Pietro. “Pietro just got home.”

Tony opened his mouth to argue but then closed it. He held his hand out for the napkin. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“Is this for school?” Phil asked. He’d cancelled the homeschooling for the week in response to everything that had happened, but Tony, Bruce and Steve still had mid-term exams starting on Monday. 

Tony shook his head. “I’m making Bucky an arm.” 

Bucky grinned and stuck out his fist which Tony immediately bumped. He then settled back against Steve’s chest.

Clint sat up, eyes wide. “You can do that?”

“I can do anything,” Tony scoffed. “Well, with Bruce’s help.”

“And I will help,” Bruce said. “Just—not tonight. Okay?”

“It’s okay,” Pietro said. “Tony needs your help. You should go.” He was looking very intently at the remains of his pizza.

“Since when do you care about Tony?” Steve spat.

_Here it comes,_ Phil thought tiredly. “Steve,” he said, emphasizing his son’s name with just enough tone to get Steve’s attention. “Don’t.”

Steve’s mouth hardened but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

There was an awkward silence. 

“So, what’re you planning?” Natasha said. “Some 3D plastic printing?” 

“Could it be pink?” Wanda said instantly. “I saw a lovely pink and purple one on the internet. Pietro loves pink.” 

“No I don’t. That’s you.” Pietro grinned.

“I want it to be silver,” Bucky said. His words were slower because of his pain medication. “With a cool design on it.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “Like hot-rod flames!”

“No way. He’s not a race-car.” 

“He’s going to be as well-designed,” Tony said to Natasha. “Flames it is!”

“I like flames,” Bucky said.

“What do you think it should be?” Clint asked Natasha. “You have cool ideas about stuff.” 

“You’re only saying that because she lets you kiss her,” Tony rolled his eyes.

“A red star,” Natasha said immediately. 

“I like red stars!” Bucky said.

Steve tilted his head, consideringly, his anger at Pietro apparently forgotten for a moment. “That’s kind of neat, actually.”

“What would you do, Stevie?” Bucky asked his boyfriend. “You’re a good artist.” 

Steve smiled at Bucky, his cheeks tinting pink at the compliment. “I think I’d keep the star idea. But maybe make it white? Like a real star? But I’d put a circle around it—or maybe two circles! Red and blue with a white star in the middle.” 

“You’re making him into a mini version of the flag!” Tony laughed. “Just in case he ever forgets what country he’s from?” 

Steve’s blush deepened. “I didn’t think of that.”

“I like it,” Clint said loyally. “But maybe it should have more purple? Like what Wanda said?”

“I was joking.”

“I know,” Clint said to Wanda. “But I really like purple.” 

“And if you ever need a new arm, I will make it purple,” Tony promised him. “However before we’re ready to paint Bucky’s prosthetic, I need to make it.” He stood. “Ciao bellas! I’m going to be in my workshop if you need me.” 

“Take your plate to the kitchen first,” Phil called.

“Yes master!” Tony said like Igor, scooped up his plate and Natasha and Clint’s as well, and went to the kitchen.

“You should go with him,” Wanda said to Bruce.

“Yes,” Pietro said before Bruce could refuse. “He said he needed your help. And Wanda is here. I will be fine.”

Bruce glanced at Steve, who was talking softly to Bucky and ignoring Pietro. “Okay.” He stood. “But I’ll have my cell phone if you need anything.” 

“We’ll be fine,” Wanda patted the side of his leg. “Go help Tony.” 

Bruce ruffled her hair and scooped up his plate. A few moments later he and Tony were heading out the door, already deep in discussion.

“May I be excused?” Clint asked. 

“I think we’re all done.” Phil said. “Can everyone who’s physically able please help clean up?” 

Bucky winked at Pietro. “I knew there’d be some benefit to getting shot. No clean-up duty!” 

“That’s not funny.”

Phil took another breath. “Steve, Bucky was just trying to—“ 

“None of this is funny!” Steve continued like Phil hadn’t spoken. “Bucky, you nearly _died_ because Pietro couldn’t keep his mouth shut! How is that funny?”

“I didn’t say—“ Bucky started.

“Do _not_ speak like that about my brother!” Wanda jumped to her feet. “This is not his fault!”

Steve’s jaw clamped shut. “I’m going to put the horses to bed.” He stormed out.

“Careful of the construction work!” Phil called after him. Half the barn was still usable after the fire but the two stables by the front doors and the tack room had burned. That area was currently being rebuilt by local contractors. The horses were currently being housed outside under a three-walled lean-to that kept them out of the wind. 

“Wow, he’s angry,” Clint said to no-one in particular.

“His boyfriend got shot.” Natasha took Clint’s hand. “I’d be angry too, if something like that happened to you.” 

“But it is not Pietro’s fault,” Wanda said again. “Steve should not believe that.” 

“I’m not so sure he is wrong,” Pietro said quietly. 

“Pietro—!” Phil started.

“Wanda, will you please help me upstairs?” Pietro said quickly, cutting Phil off. He started limping over to the stairs.

Wanda immediately went to help him hobble out of the room. 

“I’m gonna keep cleaning up,” Clint said. He started picking up the pop cans and Natasha grabbed the rest of the plates, both of them disappearing into the kitchen. 

“I knew Steve was mad,” Bucky said after they’d left, “but I didn’t know he was that mad.” 

“He loves you very much,” Phil sad simply. 

“Well that ain’t bad,” Bucky grinned, but then his face fell. “But I’m okay, and this wasn’t Pietro’s fault. Why can’t he see that?”

“It’s just going to take some time,” Phil reassured him. 

“Okay,” Bucky sighed. “If you say so.”

* * *

Tony had no fucking clue what time it was. 

“Jesus,” Bruce muttered as he pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. “No wonder I can’t see straight, it’s nearly 3 a.m.” 

“Fuck,” Tony scrubbed his hands over his face, forgetting about his cast until it scraped against his stubble. He rubbed his fingertips over it. “Think I should grow a goatee?”

“I think you’d look like a dweeb with a goatee. But then again I also thought it’d be a good idea to come out to your workshop, so what the hell do I know?” Bruce smirked.

They were out in the shed in the backyard that Phil had let Tony install over the summer. It was powered and air-conditioned and had hot and cold running water, thanks to the solar panels on the roof. It even had a bar fridge and a coffee maker and a microwave and a couch up against the wall that Tony had crashed on more than once. It was large enough for four medium-sized cars parked end-to-end, or the one car Tony and Bucky were slowly refurbishing and two long tables kitty-corner to each other that Bruce and Tony were using for creating their prosthetic. The tables had spare parts, tools and really expensive computer equipment all over them, and as Natasha had suspected, a 3D printer.

“About the same as me,” Tony said idly. He picked up the piece of paper he’d been scribbling on and looked at it, squinted, turned it upside down and then looked at it again. “I have no idea what this is meant to be.”

“I think that’s your brain’s way of telling us we need to call it a night—or morning.” Bruce tugged gently at Tony’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

“Okay,” Tony said. He picked up his pen again. “I think if I just move this joint—“

Bruce shook him. “No more work right now. Sleep.” 

“Coffee!” Tony exclaimed. “That’ll fix my brain! I’ll have some coffee and—“

Bruce grabbed the pen out of Tony’s hand and chucked it across the room. It clinked against the exposed motor of the 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster before landing on the polished concrete floor and rolling away. 

Tony and Bruce watched it as it disappeared under the car. “I needed that.” 

“You need _sleep!_ ” Bruce tugged at his shoulder again. 

“But—“

“Okay. I need sleep, and I’m not leaving you here.”

“Fine,” Tony huffed. “But tomorrow night? We’re here until dawn!”

“As you wish.”

“Hey!” Tony’s face lit up. “Was that a Princess Bride quote? Did you just quote the Princess Bride at me?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “But I was also lying.”

Tony’s face fell. “You’re just mean.” He only put up a token resistance as Bruce propelled him out of the workshop and across the lawn back towards the rear entrance of the house. He _was_ tired, he could feel the burn in his eyeballs and the way his temples were beginning to throb. By the time they’d gotten to the edge of the pasture closest to the house, the idea of sleep was actually really appealing.

“Even the horses are asleep,” Bruce said softly as he pointed. All nine of them were huddled together under the lean-to, heads bowed as they slept. Horse was leaning against Daisy and Winter had laid his head across Captain’s back. It was kind of cute, actually.

“Mmm, sleep,” Tony muttered. He yawned. Bruce yawned too and they both grinned at each other. They reached the house and Tony breathed a sigh of relief that Phil had left the back door open for them. He hadn’t brought his keys out and he was really glad he didn’t have to call anyone to let them in. Quietly they slipped inside and took off their shoes. 

“You hungry?” Bruce whispered. 

“No.” Tony’s headache of sleep deprivation was now just bad enough to make him feel slightly nauseous. “I think I’m just gonna head up.”

“Careful you don’t wake Bucky,” Bruce said quietly as he surveyed the dark living-room. “If that lumpy shape is anything to go by, it looks like he’s sleeping on the pull-out couch.”

“You be careful you don’t trip over Steve then. Because if his bae is down here you know he’s somewhere down here, too.”

Bruce smirked. “I’ll be careful.” 

Tony patted him on the shoulder and headed towards the stairs, being careful to give the living-room area a wide berth. Just as he thought Steve was in the living room, sleeping on the floor by the couch in a nest of blankets. It made Tony smile to see it, and gave him a sharp pang of longing to see Pepper. _Tomorrow,_ he thought. _Once I’ve finished the design of the neurotransmitters for the wrist._

He glanced back at the Bucky-couch combination as he headed upstairs. Bucky was sleeping in the living room because he was too injured to be able to comfortably make it up the stairs. Because he’d been shot. Because he couldn’t defend himself. 

Because he didn’t have a left arm.

Tony grit his teeth, feeling the itchiness start under his skin again. It made him want to run back out to his workshop, sleep be damned. 

_Sleep._ His whole body ached for it. 

“Okay, okay!” he muttered and started the walk towards the bathroom so he could quickly brush his teeth before collapsing into bed. He’d be the only one in the room tonight. Bucky was his usual roommate, who couldn’t make it up the stairs— “Shut up!” he muttered to himself. Thinking about Bucky needing a new arm was not compatible with sleep. 

_Sleep_ was compatible with sleep. Darkness and his warm bed and peace and quiet. Tony sighed contentedly, thinking of how delicious falling unconscious was going to feel.

Which was exactly the moment that he heard the crying.

* * *

Pietro woke, crying, coughing and gasping for air.

He could feel himself shaking; his body trembling with the shock of the images his mind had supplied: Wanda and Bruce instead of Bucky and Jonas in the barn. His sister and brother; shot, bleeding. His parents, screaming as the walls went up in flames. _Burning._

The images were still there, making his hands clumsy as he fumbled for his puffer on the bedside table. He was still coughing as his lungs protested his high emotions. He could feel the tears as they fell hot against his cheeks. Hot, like the air in the barn.

_Wanda dressed in scarlet from the flames._

The puffer slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor. Automatically he reached for it, the movement pulling on his left thigh and he fell back in pain. There was barely enough air in his lungs for him to cry out.

Suddenly, there was someone with him, pressing his puffer into his fingers and helping him sit up with gentle hands. Pietro grabbed at the puffer and inhaled deeply on the sharp-tasting medicine. The relief was almost immediate, as was his relief that his brother wasn’t dead and that it had only been a dream. He pulled Bruce to him, wrapping his arms around his brother’s shoulders and holding tightly, tears still slipping down his cheeks and his body still shaking.

Bruce hesitated a second before returning Pietro’s embrace just as tightly, his cast a comforting weight on Pietro’s back.

“I dreamt that you died,” Pietro said when had finally gotten himself back under control. “You and Wanda. And our mother and father. In the barn when it burned.”

“That sounds awful,” Tony said. “But unless you really mean it was me you were dreaming of with Wanda and your parents, it wasn’t me.”

Pietro pulled back. “Tony?”

“Um, yeah?” Tony said. “I heard you crying.”

Pietro immediately took his hands off of Tony’s shoulder and wiped at his eyes instead. He was horribly embarrassed. “I am sorry I woke you,” he said stiffly. “I am sure I can go back to sleep now.” 

“You didn’t wake me.” Tony didn’t move from where he was sitting on the edge of Pietro’s bed. “I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard you. It sounded pretty bad and I don’t like to be alone after my nightmares. So.” He shrugged.

The idea of one of the richest teens in the world having bad dreams made Pietro blink. “You have nightmares?” 

“Sure,” Tony smirked mirthlessly. “Being abandoned all alone in my family’s mansion is one. There’s also the one where I’m at an airport and I have to get somewhere but I can’t find my passport, or my suitcase—or my clothes. That’s pretty fun. Not quite as good as being at M.I.T. again and having to find the room where my exam is being written and I’m already late. But my _favourite_ would have to be the one where I get to watch my parent’s car disintegrate on impact. Good times.” 

“I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Most people don’t. But you asked.” They fell into an uncomfortable silence. “Want me to get your brother?” Tony said after the silence was too much. “He’s downstairs snacking.”

“I think I’m okay,” Pietro said. He licked his lips. “Thank you. For helping me.” 

Tony shrugged again. “No matter what you think Pietro, I’m not totally evil.”

Pietro was suddenly reminded of his conversation with Bruce the previous evening. “I’m sorry,” he said before he could change his mind. “I have been angry with you for things that weren’t your fault. It was not fair and I’m sorry.” He glanced up at Tony, trying to judge his expression in the darkness.

“You’re apologizing? To me?” 

“Yes. I was wrong and I’m sorry for it.”

“But what about the fact that Stark Industries’ bombs killed your parents? I thought you hated me for that.”

“It was not your choice, and they were not your bombs. I understand that now.”

“I’m glad,” Tony said softly. “I’m really glad to hear that, Pietro. Because I totally love your brother like a brother—which makes sense, because he _is_ my brother—but he really loves you like that. And I really hated how your hating me was making things all hard for Bruce. And me. And probably Wanda. And maybe you, too.”

“It was.” Pietro swallowed. “And my hatred, it is the reason why Brock and Grant knew where to find you. Bucky and Jonas were shot because of me.”

He could just make out Tony’s incredulous expression in the low light. “You been drinking the same Kool-Aid as Steve?”

“I don’t understand. I haven’t been drinking any Kool-Aid—“

“No! I mean that what Steve thinks—what _you_ think—It’s not true! It’s not your fault that Bucky and Jonas—and you!—got shot. That’s all on those motherfuckers who did it. Not on you.” 

“But it was my anger, my hatred that let them here!” Pietro said. Tony wasn’t understanding, just like Bruce hadn’t understood, either. “If I had not been so full of hate—“

“Slow down, Luke Skywalker,” Tony said. “How’d you know that you wouldn’t have told those assholes the same thing out of deep love and affection if you weren’t hating on me?”

Pietro went to argue, then stopped. “What?” 

“So, like, what if we were besties right from the beginning?” Tony said. “Isn’t just as possible that you’d have been so excited to have me in your life that you’d have told your new school friends about your friends at the farm?”

It was true. Pietro had told Grant, Brock and especially Skye, about Wanda and Bruce and the others. He’d only really mentioned Tony that one time because he’d been so mad. It was very likely he’d have spoken about him earlier if they’d been friends. “Yes,” Pietro said finally. “I might have done that.”

“Of course you would’ve. I’m an irresistible topic of conversation.” But then Tony grew serious. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Pietro. No matter what you thought of me, you’re a good guy. You have to be, or Wanda and Bruce wouldn’t love you so much.”

That made Pietro smile. “Wanda is much nicer than I am.” 

“Can’t argue there,” Tony grinned. “But Bruce is too smart to hang out with you just because your sister is nice.” 

They sat in silence again, but this time it was comfortable, like one shared between friends. “Thank you,” Pietro said finally. “Thank you—for everything.” 

“No worries.” Tony stretched. “But seriously it’s like five minutes to dawn. I gotta get to bed.” He looked at Pietro. “You okay? For realsies?”

Pietro smiled. “Yes, for realsies.” 

“Yay!” Tony cheered quietly. “And now I’m going to bed.” He stood and went to the door but then stopped and looked back. “I’m glad we had this little chat, Pietro. Well, except for the crying part. Next time no crying.”

“I promise,” Pietro said solemnly before he smiled. 

“Excellent!” Tony beamed at him. “Ciao bell'uomo!” He left.

Bruce came in one second later. “Hey,” he said softly. “I just saw Tony coming out. Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Pietro’s lips curved up. “I think it is.”

* * *

“So,” Sam said, crossing his legs casually at the ankles. “What’s better, Vision or Jonas?”

Jonas looked at Sam assessingly. “I feel somehow that that might be a trick question.” 

Sam chuffed. “What would that trick be?”

They were sitting together in the small living room of Peggy and Angie’s apartment in downtown Poughkeepsie. The apartment was above an antiques store owned by the landlord, and the owner’s taste was evident in the vintage fixtures throughout the space. It was decorated with all the charm of the nineteen-forties and none of the inconvenience. Jonas was sitting on the comfortable couch, allowing him to stretch out his right leg in front of him which helped ease the pain in his still-healing hip. Sam was across from him in an upholstered wing-back chair which Sam had moved so that it was nearly touching the couch. It meant that Jonas didn’t need to turn his head at a strange angle to talk with him. 

Because he _was_ going to talk with Sam. Peggy had made it very clear that he and Sam were going to have a bit of a conversation about the recent events in Jonas’ life. Then she’d taken Angie out for breakfast at a local diner, leaving Jonas with peanut-butter toast, a cup of tea, and the dubious pleasure of an uncomfortable chat with a near stranger. 

It was obvious that Sam was aware of Jonas’ discomfort and was doing his best to make him feel more at ease. Jonas was trying to let it work, but it was hard. 

“The trick,” Jonas said after a moment, “seems to be that, if I choose ‘Vision,’ it creates an opening for you to ask why I didn’t introduce myself as such when I first arrived at the farm. If I say ‘Jonas,’ then it’s a chance for you to ask what about ‘Jonas’ is better than ‘Vision,’ which has me talking about my past. Either way I end up talking.” 

“Huh,” Sam said with a bright smile. “That’s pretty clever. Peggy said you were smart.” 

Jonas found himself blushing at the praise. “I did well in my GCSEs.” 

“That’s a British high school thing, right?”

“Yes.”

“She said you were thinking about becoming a Disaster Management Coordinator? Maybe working for the Red Cross?”

“My parents dedicated their lives to helping others,” Jonas said. His throat tightened. 

“I can see why you’d want to carry that forward,” Sam said. “Hell of a legacy.” 

Jonas nodded. He was close to tears and he blinked. He very much didn’t want to cry.

“You know,” Sam said conversationally. “There’s really nothing wrong with crying when you’re sad.”

“What do I have to be sad about?” Jonas forced himself to smile. “I’m alive. Not everyone is so lucky to survive what I have.”

“Like your parents?” Sam said bluntly. 

It was exactly what Jonas was thinking. He nodded.

“I think they might understand their son crying because they died.”

“I’m sure they would.” 

Sam raised his eyebrows. “But?”

The laugh Jonas gave had no humour in it. “I’m afraid if I start—if I really let myself feel what’s happened—I’ll start to cry and I’ll never stop.” He blinked. His eyes were burning.

“I get that,” Sam said. “Your parents die, you’re forced to leave the only home you’ve known for the last six years; your school; all your friends. The cousin you’re meant to live with doesn’t answer your email and then the minute you arrive someone tries to kill you—twice. There’s a lot to feel in any of that, but all of it at once…” he shook his head. 

Jonas nodded miserably, twin tears trickling down his cheeks.

“I think if it was me, I think I’d be screaming. I’d be screaming at the unfairness of it all. The brutality. You haven’t even had a chance to really mourn your parents yet, and now you have to deal with moving countries, and being abandoned and being assaulted! How the hell are you meant to deal with all of that?”

Jonas shook his head and more tears fell. He had no idea what he was meant to do.

“I think—I’d think that maybe if I changed my name. If I wasn’t ‘Sam Wilson’ anymore, but if I got to be someone else, maybe it might be a little better. Maybe I could forget for a while. Just catch my breath, you know?”

“Yes,” Jonas whispered. He hadn’t thought it at the time but that’s exactly why he’d lied about his name. So he could be someone else. Someone without all that loss.

“But you didn’t get to catch your breath, did you?” Sam said quietly. “Because you got shot. The same assholes who pushed you out of a moving car came back and shot you. They tried to kill you. They shot you and your friends and set the barn on fire.”

Jonas nodded again. He remembered the terror of that moment; the kick-drum of his heart as he stared down the barrel of Grant’s gun. But underneath the terror, there was a small, dark sense of relief: that it would finally be over. 

Sam was studying him, his forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m guessing that was a pretty tough thing to live through.”

Jonas looked at him sharply through his tears. It felt like Sam had read his mind again, but Jonas wasn’t sure. “What did you mean by that?”

“I know what I meant.” Sam tilted his head. “But I’m interested. What did you think I meant?”

“You said it was ‘tough for me to live through.’ Like the _living_ through it was the tough part. Like surviving it was the hardest thing.” 

“Was it?”

“Was what?”

“Was _living_ through getting shot and the fire—was the fact you _did_ survive—the hardest thing?”

Jonas swallowed. He thought of his mother and father, their kind faces and gentle hearts and how he would never see them again. It was impossible to imagine. He nodded.

“I can see that.” There was no judgement in Sam’s tone. “I can see how tempting it must have been to have just stayed there and let the fire do its job.”

Jonas nodded again. There was no point in pretending otherwise. 

“So, why didn’t you?” Sam asked. “Why didn’t you give into temptation and die?”

“Because Bucky needed me.” The horrific image of Bucky howling in pain while Jonas pressed down on his wound flashed through his mind. “If I hadn’t helped him, he would’ve died, too.”

“That’s a powerful reason to stay alive,” Sam said. “Got any more like that?”

“My family.” Jonas’ voice was rough. “My friends at school. Peggy and Angie. Phil. Clint. Bucky and Natasha. Wanda.” 

“That’s a lot of people.” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s hard,” Sam said. “So many people who need you. Need you alive. Takes away some choices, doesn’t it?”

Jonas made a small smile through his tears. “Almost sounds like you favour the dark side.” 

Sam smirked. “I understood that reference. But that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m just trying to acknowledge that living can be hard sometimes. Really hard.”

Jonas nodded again. He closed his eyes at the truth in Sam’s words, tears still edging down his cheeks. “How do I keep doing it?” Jonas whispered. “How do I keep living for these people when I don’t want to do it for myself?”

“What do you think?”

Jonas thought. He thought about Peggy, and how she’d cried when she found him safe. He thought about Phil and his kids, and how they’d accepted him and cared for him when he’d lied to them about everything. He thought about Wanda, and her big green eyes and her good heart and how much he loved to hear her laugh. She’d told him she loved him, and she’d already lost so much. 

“I think,” Jonas said slowly. “I think that’s exactly what you do. You just keep on living. Knowing it’s for them.” 

“That makes sense.” Sam’s expression was intense. “But is that enough? Is knowing that your life matters to others enough to keep you alive?”

Jonas wiped his eyes with the heel of his good hand. Tears were still seeping from his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “It’s just really hard.”

“I hear that. I hear that the idea of living when it hurts _so badly_ feels like more than you can bear. And the idea of dying sounds pretty perfect.” 

“Yes.” There was no reason for him not to admit it.

Sam was still looking at him with same intensity. “I’ve got to know this, Jonas. You got to be honest with me here. Are you planning on killing yourself?”

“No,” Jonas said truthfully. “But sometimes—sometimes I wish I could’ve died. From being pushed out of the car, or the fire. I wish I died.”

“Because of how much you’re hurting,” Sam said with complete understanding. 

“Yes.” Jonas let his head drop forward, tears dripping off his chin.

“Can I tell you something?”

Jonas nodded. “Please.”

“Here’s the thing,” Sam said. “Dying, killing yourself. It doesn’t really work. Suicide doesn’t actually end the pain.”

Jonas looked up. Death ended everything, didn’t it? “It doesn’t?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “It just shifts the pain from you to someone else.”

Jonas blinked as Sam’s statement echoed in his mind. He suddenly had an image of Wanda holding his hands and crying as she shared in his grief. It wasn’t hard to think of what it might do to her if he killed himself. He knew the agony of losing people you loved. “I don’t want to hurt anyone like that.”

“I know you don’t. Which is why we’re talking—and why we’re going to keep talking so that you have a safe way to get all this pain out into the open. So it’s not making you want to die.”

Jonas hugged himself, his cast rough against the skin of his other arm. The pain felt like his heart, not his hip, had been gouged with a bullet. “Will it ever stop hurting?” he whimpered.

“No,” Sam replied, brutally honest. “But the edges get worn smooth after a while, and then they don’t cut so deep.” 

_Edges worn smooth,_ Jonas thought. That sounded tolerable. He nodded.

“Do you think you can do this Jonas?” Sam asked. “Do you think you can live with this terrible grief for a while, knowing that it’s going to keep hurting until it gets better?” 

Jonas sighed. It seemed insurmountable. A huge cliff of sharpest agony that he’d have to climb over and over again. 

But then he thought of Wanda, and how she’d lost her parents and her country, just like he had. She had found the courage to climb that mountain. Even when her heart must have felt like shattered glass, she had chosen to live.

That was exactly what Sam was asking him to do; to choose to keep going. To live with the pain until the edges had been worn smooth. 

Wanda had done it. Surely he could do nothing less. “Yes,” Jonas said finally, “I think I can.”

* * *

She found him sitting on the back porch.

Pietro was sitting on the porch swing looking out over the back of the property. The horses were in the paddock playing with each other, trotting over and then gently nipping and then breaking into a run to get away, like a toddler’s game of tag. Wanda liked the look of the horses, but she was a city girl and their size made her nervous. Natasha was helping her get used to them but she wasn’t sure she’d want to ride one anytime soon.

“Hello brat,” Wanda said to Pietro. ‘Brat’ was actually short for veliki brat, which meant ‘big brother’ in Sokovian, and was the term of endearment she’d used for Pietro since they were both much younger. Once she learned what ‘brat’ meant in English however it was too perfect for her to ever stop using it.

“Hey.” He grinned at her and shuffled over on the porch swing so that there was room for her to sit, wincing as he did so.

She frowned. “Your leg still hurting?” She spoke in Sokovian. Even though she and Pietro were fluent in English it was still a pleasure to speak in their first language together. It was one of the few things that belonged to them alone.

He shrugged. “My leg, my lungs. The doctor said I was healing well at my appointment this morning though. He thinks I can start running again—eventually.” He made a face. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her brother wasn’t the most patient person at the best of times, and she knew how much he loved to run. Waiting to heal would be hard. “But at least you’re getting better.” 

“Better than being dead.” 

“Don’t joke about that!” 

“I’m not joking.” He nudged her shoulder. “There’s been too much death in your life already.” 

“In _our_ lives.” She nudged him back. “They were your parents, too.”

“I know.” He lifted up his phone from where it was resting beside him, checking the screen.

Wanda sighed but she let it go. Her brother was stubborn and if she tried to force him to talk about their parents he’d probably just get upset and leave. But she couldn’t help but wish they could speak about them, and the good times they had before the bombs. 

She wished they could cry together. 

“Any messages?” She asked instead.

Pietro shook his head. “Nothing.” 

Wanda patted his shoulder in sympathy. “It’s only Thursday. Maybe she doesn’t know you’re not back at school yet?”

“I haven’t been there since Monday. I’d hope she’d have noticed by now.” 

“Maybe she’s sick?” Wanda was grasping at straws, but she had no idea why Pietro’s girlfriend Skye hadn’t contacted him. Even though Pietro hadn’t said much about it, she knew her sudden disappearance had hurt. 

He shot her a look. “She’s not sick.” 

“Maybe her phone’s broken, or maybe—“

“Or maybe she’s broken up with me and this is how she’s letting me know,” Pietro said tiredly. He held the phone loosely between his hands, letting it dangle. 

“I thought you said she was smart.”

Pietro smirked at that. “Maybe she is being smart by breaking up with me.” 

It was Wanda’s turn to look sharply at her sibling. “How could you think that?”

He shrugged again but didn’t say anything, instead he stared out at the paddock. 

“It wasn’t your fault that you and the others got shot,” she said quietly. 

“I know.” He glanced at her. “Tony told me much the same thing.” 

“Tony?”

“Yes. I think we might be friends now.” He smiled. 

“That’s wonderful!” She threw her arms around him and squeezed him hard enough that he complained. “I’m so glad you don’t hate him anymore!”

“Yeah. It means I can use his StarkPhone without feeling guilty.” 

She laughed, but then her face fell as she saw his expression hadn’t really changed. “But you’re still upset with yourself.”

“I thought they were my friends,” Pietro said quietly. “Just like I thought Skye was my girlfriend. But clearly I got that very wrong. It doesn’t make me feel good.” 

“From what you told me about Grant and Brock,” Wanda said slowly as she gathered her thoughts, “they remind me of the other children we knew in the refugee camp. You know, the ones who _wanted_ to be nice, but were so desperate they’d end up pushing you down and taking your bread? Well the actions of those boys remind me of that.”

“I think you’re right—But I still should’ve seen it. I lived in that camp with you for two years. I knew what that kind of desperation looked like. I _felt_ it.” He shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

“It’s not wrong that you wanted to see the best in them,” Wanda said gently. 

He dipped his head in agreement. “I didn’t really like them,” he said honestly. “But they mattered so much to Skye—“ 

“So you gave them the benefit of the doubt,” Wanda finished. “That’s not wrong, either.” 

“I guess not. But I still feel really stupid.” 

She patted his shoulder. “And how is that different than normal?”

He laughed. “Brat.” 

“No. _You’re_ the brat.” She grinned at him. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, watching as the big horse Mjolnir nudged Hera with his muzzle. She turned and nipped at him before trotting away.

“Maybe you’ll get a chance to talk to Skye on Monday when you go back to school,” Wanda said. “You guys share classes. Hopefully you can sort it out then.” 

“I’m not going back,” Pietro said. “It didn’t work so well for me the first time. I think I’d like to stay here for school. With you—and my friends.” 

Wanda shrieked with joy and hugged him again.

“Quit it!” he pushed at her gently. “You’re going to smother me.” 

“So you really want to study here? Really?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” 

“And you like everyone now? They’re your friends?”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Are you a parrot now? But yes. I may have noticed how nice everyone is—even before I got shot. Yes they’re my friends. Well except for Steve. I don’t think Steve likes me very much.” 

Wanda nodded. “He’s very angry.” 

“I understand that,” Pietro sighed. “I think if the situation was reversed and it had been Steve’s friend who shot you I would also not be so forgiving.” 

“He just needs time.” Wanda really liked Steve. She hoped she was right.

“Or the chance to punch me in the face,” Pietro grinned.

Wanda grinned too. “I’ve always found that therapeutic.” 

He knocked his shoulder against hers, still grinning. “Does Jonas know how violent you are? I should warn him before he comes back for classes.”

Wanda’s face fell. “He doesn’t like me that way, Pietro.” 

He knocked her shoulder again and repeated the advice she’d just given him: “He just needs time.”

“I hate waiting,” she mumbled. Maybe she was more like her brother than she thought.

He put his arm around her. “At least we have company for our broken hearts.” 

“I love you, brat.” 

He hugged her tighter. “I love you too, little sister.”

She leaned against him, her head on his chest and they watched the horses together.

* * *

Pietro woke with a start, his whole body trembling. 

It was the same nightmare he’d had the night before, only this time Skye had been there too, and she’d laughed as Grant pulled the trigger.

He moved until he was resting on his forearm and tried to breathe. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest; the way his breath was rasping in his lungs, making him cough. Carefully he sat up, found his medicine on his bedside table and managed to pick it up without dropping it and take a dose. It made him think of Tony and his kindness and he wished the other boy was there. Especially as Bruce was still sleeping soundly, completely unaware of Pietro’s distress. He was glad his nightmare hadn’t woken Bruce, even though he would’ve loved the comfort of his brother’s company. 

Pietro lay back, heart still pounding as the horrific images from his nightmare played over in his mind. He forced himself to listen to Bruce’s even breathing and tried to match his breaths to his brother’s. He stayed like that, breathing in and out, trying to blank his mind, willing himself to just go back to sleep.

It wasn’t working. 

Pietro squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth as he attempted to force the images of Wanda and Bruce burning out of his head. They were still there, as horrific as ever and he decided he didn’t want to try anymore. With a groan he sat up, wincing as his leg twinged with pain. He stilled and waited.

Bruce didn’t stir.

Quietly Pietro slipped out of bed, limping as silently as possible. He went out the door and shut it soundlessly behind him. 

He paused outside of Wanda’s door for a moment, wondering if it would be okay if he woke up his twin. They’d helped each other through countless nightmares since the bombing and he knew she’d understand. He reached for the doorknob but then stilled. Wanda wasn’t sleeping behind a hanging blanket anymore. Now she was sharing a room with Natasha, who might not appreciate Pietro waking her for something as stupid as a nightmare. Sighing, he dropped his hand. 

He was on his own and there was no way he could just go back to bed. _Water,_ he decided. He wasn’t really thirsty, but it was as good a reason as any to not return to his room. 

Keeping his steps as noiseless as possible, Pietro crept down the hallway and then down the stairs to the kitchen. He knew that Bucky and Steve were sleeping in the living room while Bucky continued to recover, and he was loathe to wake either one of them. Steve hated him enough right now. He really didn’t want to add to that.

Turns out he needn’t have worried about waking them. Steve was already in the kitchen, standing by the sink, gripping the ledge tightly with both hands. 

That was unfortunate as Steve was now between Pietro and the glass of water he’d come down for. Luckily he wasn’t really thirsty because it meant he could go back up without Steve seeing him. As quietly as he’d entered the kitchen, Pietro turned to leave.

And stubbed the baby toe of his left foot against one of the kitchen chairs. It sent a bolt of pain up his leg that was immediately joined by the wound in his thigh as he jerked his limb back. He cried out as he grabbed at a chair to help keep his balance. Which resulted in him and the chair falling gracelessly and extremely noisily to the floor.

Steve whirled from the sink, eyes wide. Pietro lay on the ground beside the fallen chair. His leg ached and his toe was throbbing where he’d whacked it, but he was holding himself as still as Steve now was, like they were both deer in headlights, barely breathing.

“Steve?” Bucky called from the living room, his voice thick with sleep. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah baby,” Steve said softly. “I just knocked over a chair. Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. His voice was already fading as he fell back asleep. Steve and Pietro stayed frozen until it was clear that Bucky wasn’t going to wake further.

“Sorry about that.” Pietro gave Steve an apologetic grin. He propped himself on his elbows on the kitchen floor. The ache in his thigh and toe had lessened, but his heart was still beating too fast in reaction to the dark expression on Steve’s face. 

“Oh you got a lot to be sorry for!” Steve hissed at him. “Get up.”

Dutifully Pietro climbed to his feet, balancing on his right. His left leg was healing but it wasn’t nearly one-hundred per-cent, and falling down hadn’t helped it any. “I didn’t mean to wake Bucky—“ 

Steve grabbed him by the upper arms and before Pietro could even object had propelled him through the living room and then through the back door to the porch outside. 

The night was beautiful, still and silent without any wind. Above the sky gleamed with a blanket of a thousand stars. 

It was also dark and cold and Pietro was only in sleep pants and a t-shirt. Steve didn’t even have a shirt on, his broad chest as pale as the stars. He seemed too angry to be feeling the cold. “Steve?” 

“Shut up!” Steve said fiercely. He was still gripping Pietro’s upper arms tight enough to hurt.

Pietro shut up. 

“It’s like it’s your personal mission to hurt Bucky!” Steve snarled at him. “First you get him _shot_ with your fucking selfishness, then you wake him up when he’s trying to sleep!” He shook Pietro hard enough that his teeth rattled. “Give me _one good reason_ why I shouldn’t knock you into next week!” 

“I didn’t mean to wake him!” Pietro said. He forced down his instinct to defend himself, remembering how he’d told Wanda he’d probably be as angry as Steve if the situation were reversed. “And I for sure didn’t want him to get hurt! I didn’t want anyone—“

“Well he _did_ get hurt! He nearly _died_ because you were too mad at Tony to keep your fucking mouth shut! You practically _told_ those guys to come here—“

“Hey!” Pietro said hotly, “I did _not!_ Yes I was mad at Tony but I _never_ told Grant and Brock to come here to hurt him! That was not my fault!”

“You ruin _everything!_ ” Steve continued like Pietro hadn’t spoken. “Things were fine before you got here! We were safe! _Bucky was safe_ before you came!” He shook Pietro again.

Pietro had had enough. He knew that Phil’s kids had received self-defence training from the big blond teacher, but Pietro had learned how to defend himself in the dirt of the Latverian refugee camp. He broke Steve’s hold on his shoulders and shoved the other boy back hard enough to make him stumble.

“Back off!” Pietro shouted at Steve. “I did not hurt Bucky! But I _will_ hurt you if you don’t leave me alone!”

“That was the only excuse I needed.” Steve stalked towards him, hands curled into fists.

“Bring it,” Pietro spat. 

“Shouldn’t both of you have more oil and less clothes if you’re going to wrestle?” 

Neither Pietro nor Steve looked away from glaring at each other. “This doesn’t concern you, Tony,” Steve said. 

“Actually,” Tony said as he stepped in between Pietro and Steve, forcing both of them to move back from each other. “If you were being all ranty about it being Pietro’s fault that Bucky got shot, then yes, it totally concerns me.” 

That got Steve’s attention. “No it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does. You accused Pietro of bringing the wrath of his comrades down upon the farm in a misguided attempt to do me harm. Ergo, it concerns me. Probably more than most.” 

“But Bucky got _shot!_ ” Steve shouted. “Not you! Bucky!”

“And so did Jonas, and Pietro too,” Tony pointed out. “And Clint would’ve as well if he’d been inside the barn. You keep forgetting that Bucky wasn’t the only victim.” 

“He wouldn’t have been a victim at all if it wasn’t for Pietro!”

“ _Pietro_ didn’t shoot him! Not his gun, not his fault!”

“I didn’t want him to be hurt!” Pietro said again. “If I had known what they were planning, if I’d _known_ they were the same boys who tried to kill Jonas—“

“ _You should’ve know!_ ” Steve bellowed at Pietro. “ _You_ chose to be friends with murderers! _You told them where we live!_ ”

“ _I did not know!_ ” Pietro screamed back. “You _cannot_ blame me for something I didn’t know!”

“Bucky got shot because of you!” Steve was still yelling. “You brought killers to our home! You did that!”

“It wasn’t his fault!” Now Tony was yelling too. “It’s too bad that Bucky got hurt. It’s _awful_ what happened! But you can’t blame Pietro, Steve!”

“Why the fuck are you taking his side?”

“Why the fuck won’t you get your head out of your ass—“

A light went on upstairs and Tony and Steve immediately stopped talking. 

“We’re in for it now,” Tony muttered as the back door slid open and Phil stepped out onto the porch. His eyes were snapping with his anger. 

“It sounds like a civil war out here,” Phil said, deceptively mild. “I hope the three of you have an excellent reason for waking me up with your screaming and yelling at two thirty-seven in the morning.”

Steve drew himself up to his full height. “I’m sorry, sir.” He said like he was a solider. “Tony, Pietro and I were having a disagreement.”

“I think I figured that part out on my own.” Phil raised one eyebrow. “Anyone care to enlighten me as to what it was about?”

Pietro glanced over at Tony and Steve, who were both standing silently. Steve’s jaw was clenched tightly enough that Pietro could see the muscle bunching even in the near darkness. Pietro wanted to tell Phil, but he wasn’t sure he should if neither Steve nor Tony were saying anything.

“I thought as much,” Phil said on a sigh. He narrowed his eyes. “Tony, you’re still dressed. Were you in your workshop?”

“No?” Tony said. 

Phil frowned at him. “You know what the rules are for the workshop, Tony. You have to be inside by midnight or you don’t get to use it.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said with sincerity. “But I was working on the designs for Bucky’s arm and I had this great idea for a dynamic neural interface with quadratic sensory—“

“I’m sure it was a brilliant idea,” Phil cut him off gently, “your ideas usually are. But you’re still a teenager and you need sleep. I need you to be in by twelve.”

Tony dropped his eyes. “Okay.” He frowned as he looked down. “Where’s my other shoe?”

“You can look for it in the morning. _Later_ in the morning. When the sun has official risen and you’ve all actually had some sleep,” Phil said. He turned his gaze to Steve and Pietro. “And don’t you doubt for a second that I’ll be dealing with the two of you later this morning as well.”

“It’s nothing we can’t handle ourselves,” Steve said.

Pietro glared at him. “If ‘handling it ourselves’ means you grab me like that again then I do not want it. I will accept Phil’s help gladly.” 

Steve rolled his eyes.

Phil took a deep breath. “I know you two are both really angry right now, but I’m not equipped to start this discussion at this time at night. We’ll deal with all of it in the morning.” He gestured at the door. “Now all of you, get inside and get into bed and so help me, if you wake anyone else you will _not_ enjoy the consequences.”

The threat was implicit. The three boys nodded and went inside. Pietro was immediately surrounded by warmth. He’d been too angry to realize how cold he was but now that he was back indoors he realized he’d been shivering. 

“Go get into bed,” Phil said kindly. 

Pietro didn’t have to be told twice. He nodded and started limping towards the stairs. Then he stopped and turned back around. Steve had already gone to his nest on the floor beside the pull-out couch and Phil was in the kitchen, probably wishing he’d adopted puppies instead. 

Tony was by the front door. “Did I go _out_ with two shoes?” He muttered to himself.

“Hey,” Pietro said quietly.

Tony started. “Jesus you move quickly!”

Pietro smiled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to say thanks.” 

“For what?” Tony said, genuinely bewildered. “For not letting Steve beat the shit out of you? Because don’t get him wrong. He looks like a precious cinnamon roll but he could actually kill you.” 

“No,” Pietro said. “For being my friend.” And before Tony could react, Pietro hugged him. 

“Oh,” Tony said and hugged him back. “Well, you’re welcome.”

“Get upstairs!” Phil whispered forcefully at them.

They fled.

* * *

“So,” Phil said as two of the three boys settled into the chairs in Phil’s office. “Let’s talk about last night.”

“I thought you said we’d do this later in the morning,” Tony huffed. “I’ve had less than seven hours sleep!” 

“And that’s why you need to come in from your workshop before midnight.”

Tony frowned. “Thanks for the experiential learning experience.” 

“You can take a nap later if you need it,” Phil said with finality. “But we’re not here to discuss your sleeping habits, Tony. We’re here to discuss the fight.” 

“That’s really not necessary, sir.” Steve was standing in a near-perfect ‘at ease’ position, his eyes forward and face set. 

Phil sighed to himself. He adored his oldest son, but Steve’s stubbornness was a force to be reckoned with all on its own. For someone who valued fairness and justice so highly, it was amazing how blind he could be when he was the one being unfair. 

“I think it is,” Phil said. He looked at Pietro, who was sitting on the edge of one of the big chairs, trying to hide his nervousness with his straight back and steady gaze. “What do you think Pietro? Would you like to talk about this?”

Pietro nodded. “I would like for Steve to stop saying that I was the one who shot Bucky. I was not!”

“I second that,” Tony said. He took a sip of the mug of coffee he’d managed to snag on his way to Phil’s office. “And I’m sure Steve agrees.”

Steve’s mouth remained firmly closed, a muscle bunched in his jaw. 

“Steve,” Phil said. “Pietro and Tony are right. Pietro isn’t responsible for Bucky’s injury. Can you see that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Phil said sharply. He was too tired to try to modify his tone. “Your continued anger at Pietro for something he didn’t do is unfair. I know you pride yourself on your fairness, so I need to understand why this is so difficult for you—“

“Why is it about me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why is about me?” Steve’s eyes were crackling with anger. “ _Pietro’s_ the one who brought those thugs to our house. Pietro’s _friends_ are the ones who shot Bucky! But somehow this discussion is about me and how unfair, how _difficult_ I’m being! What about _Pietro?_ Why is he getting away scot-free?” 

“ _Because I have done nothing wrong!_ ” Pietro exploded. He was standing, fists clenched, his body practically vibrating with his anger. “I did _nothing_ to hurt Bucky! _And you will stop saying that!_ ”

“ _You’re a selfish sonovabitch who shouldn’t be here!_ ” Steve roared. “ _Everything was fine until you came!_ ”

“Are you at this _again?_ ” Tony shouted. “Jesus Steve, give it a fucking rest!”

“Bucky nearly _DIED_ because of him! _I will not give it a fucking rest!_ ”

“ _I did NOTHING!_ ” Pietro screamed. “And I will _not_ listen to you any longer!”

“That’s _enough!_ ” Phil yelled. “The three of you! Enough!”

“No! I’ve had enough!” Steve was still yelling. “Enough of Pietro and enough of Tony and enough of _you!_ ” He stormed out, slamming the door of Phil’s study behind him.

“Fucking guy!’ Tony swore.

“Enough,” Phil said again, but with much less heat. He felt the exact same as Steve.

“I cannot stay here with this man.” Pietro was seething. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Phil said. 

“Yeah, because Steve’s super receptive,” Tony said. “He loves the talking.”

Phil didn’t want to think about what would happen to their family if he couldn’t get through to Steve. “I’ll talk to him,” he said again. It was all that he could do.

* * *

_It’s not so terrible,_ Bucky thought to himself.

As soon as Steve was out of the way in Phil’s study, Bucky had gotten Clint’s help to get him up the stairs and into the shower. It had been slow going and a bit painful, but totally worth it. He’d been able to wash off six days’ worth of grime and his hair was finally soft and shiny again instead of the greasy mess it’d been since he’d come home from the hospital. He was all for retro looks but the slicked-down styles of the nineteen-forties were just not his thing.

He’d dried and combed his hair, and now he was standing in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, looking intently at where the bullet had penetrated the left side of his abdomen. 

The area was still angry and red, with a quarter-sized hole where the bullet had blasted into his side. Apparently the surgeons had figured out that nothing beside the muscle and skin had been damaged by the bullet, which had spared him an incision and a longer hospital stay. They’d actually just left the bullet in there. It still hurt like a bitch, but in a few months it’d barely look like more than a bug bite gone bad. 

Compared to the mess of scars on the remains of his left arm, it was hardly noticeable.

_What’s one more scar?_ Bucky thought. Sam had told Bucky that scars showed the world what you’d lived through. They meant you were a survivor. Bucky grinned at his reflection. He liked the sound of that.

“What the fuck?” Steve shouted at Clint from outside the bathroom door. “You let Bucky take a shower _alone?_ ”

Bucky turned toward the doorway, wondering what Steve was yelling about. Clint had parked himself on the hallway carpet outside the bathroom with a book, within easy shouting distance if Bucky’d needed him. He’d even left the bathroom door open a crack so Clint could get in quickly if there’d been an issue. Both of them had been pretty pleased with their problem-solving.

“The door was open.” Clint said, and Bucky could hear the note of fear in his voice. “I could hear him—“

“He’s _hurt!_ ” Steve was still yelling. “He was shot! _Why am I the only one who gets this?_ ”

Bucky rolled his eyes. His boyfriend could be so dramatic sometimes. “I’m fine Steve—“ 

The door banged open hard enough to dent the drywall. Bucky spun around at the noise, eyes wide. Clearly this was a bit more than Steve just being dramatic.

Steve stormed into the bathroom. “Bucky! What the _fuck_ do you think—“ He stopped. His gaze dropped from Bucky’s face to his abdomen. His nostrils flared. With an inarticulate cry of rage he turned and slammed his fist into the mirror. 

The glass broke. Fat drops of blood started dripping down the shattered glass to plop wetly onto the counter. 

“Jesus, Steve!” Bucky breathed.

“What the hell is going on up there?” Phil bellowed from the downstairs.

“Steve needs to go to the hospital!” Clint called to Phil from the bathroom doorway. 

“ _WHAT?_ ”

“I don’t think I should’ve done that,” Steve said faintly. He was staring at the deep cuts on his knuckles and watching the blood as it flowed down his hand to drip off his wrist into the sink. 

Gently Bucky pulled Steve’s hand away from the mirror and then wrapped it with the towel he’d used to dry his hair. He had to get Steve to hold one end because he couldn’t pull it tight with only one hand. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Phil stormed into the bathroom before Steve could reply, he immediately took in the broken mirror, the blood on the sink and the towel wrapped around Steve’s hand, the white cloth pinking with Steve’s blood. 

“Bucky,” Phil said, and his voice was laced with so much controlled anger that Bucky flinched. “You’re coming with me and Steve to the hospital. Clint will help you downstairs. Get dressed.” He turned to Steve. “Let’s go.” 

It was Steve’s turn to flinch, but he followed Phil out of the bathroom without protest. 

Clint was standing in the hallway, looking at Bucky, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

Bucky thinned his lips. His boyfriend could be a total ass sometimes. “No kidding.”

* * *

“Guess where we are?” Phil said into the phone. His tone was sharp enough to remove all humour from the question.

Sam groaned. “You’re shitting me.” 

“Nope,” Phil grit out. “Steve smashed his knuckles on the bathroom mirror.” 

“Steve did that? _Steve?_ ”

“He hasn’t been in the best frame of mind since Bucky was shot,” Phil said. “But yes, I wasn’t quite expecting _that,_ either.”

“Damn,” Sam whistled. “How bad?”

“The mirror or his hand? Because the latter needs stitches while the former needs a total replacement. He also dented the drywall.”

“With his fist?”

“With the door handle.” 

“Damn,” Sam said again. “Sounds like the boy was pretty angry.” 

“He was—he is,” Phil said. “He’s been enraged at Pietro for days now. He clearly thinks that Bucky’s injuries are Pietro’s fault and he wants to make sure that Pietro knows it.”

“It wasn’t Pietro’s fault, though. He has to be able to see that.” 

“Not so much as you’d notice,” Phil said wryly. The white-hot rage he’d felt when he heard that Steve had hurt himself was cooling rapidly merely from listening to Sam’s voice. There was something so infinitely calming about the other man. No wonder he’d been the first person Phil had called once he’d signed Steve in at the ED. “He’s got it in his head that Pietro _wanted_ Tony to be hurt and didn’t care about any collateral damage.”

“No wonder he’s so angry, if that’s what he thinks has been going on. It’d be hard for Steve to see Pietro every day, feeling like he got his boyfriend shot.”

“Kind of like how Pietro’s been feeling about Tony,” Phil said. “But somehow Pietro seems to have managed to get through it. I actually saw Pietro give Tony a hug last night.”

“That’s good news.” Phil could hear Sam’s smiling. “What changed?”

“Tony was defending Pietro against Steve,” Phil explained. “I think that was what did it.”

Sam laughed. “Any chance that Pietro can defend Steve against Tony?”

Phil chuckled. “Good idea, but probably not any time in the near future.” He sighed again. “Steve and Tony have been fighting, too. And he yelled at Clint this morning. He’s not doing well.”

“I hear that. And if I know you, you’re probably feeling guilty that you didn’t see it sooner.”

Phil thought of denying it. “I thought he was doing better,” he said instead. “I knew he was angry and upset, but I thought that it would go away as Bucky healed. I guess I thought wrong.”

“In my experience with Steve, it can take him a while to understand what’s going on inside his own head. That makes it even more difficult for anyone else to try to figure him out.”

“That is sadly accurate,” Phil said. “And here I thought Tony’d be my problem child.” 

Sam laughed. “Give it time.”

Phil laughed too. “Thanks for the words of encouragement.” 

“Hey,” Sam said, tone serious again. “Steve’s gonna be okay. But he needs help to figure out what’s really bothering him. It’s Pietro, but it’s not Pietro, you know?”

“Yes, the problem is never really the problem,” Phil quoted. “You taught me that.”

“And Doctor Gabor Maté taught me that,” Sam said. “And now we need to teach it to Steve.” 

“Recommendations, Doctor Wilson?” 

“I’m just a Master’s in Social Work,” Sam said, “but I got some ideas.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Talk to him,” Sam said. “Ask him what he thinks is going on. Let him vent about Pietro in a safe space until he’s ready to dig a little deeper. You know, the usual.”

Phil winced, thinking about the conversation that ended in an abortive screaming match in his office just that morning. “I may need to work on the ‘safe space’ part.”

“And once again, that’s why you pay me the big bucks,” Sam said.

* * *

It had been a very quiet ride to the hospital.

Steve knew he’d fucked up. No matter how angry he’d been, breaking the mirror with his fist had been a step too far. 

But he’d been so fucking angry. He’d been furious when he’d left Phil’s study, and then finding out that Bucky’d taken a shower _by himself_ had turned his anger into white-hot rage. As soon as he’d heard what Bucky and Clint had done, all that Steve could picture was Bucky slumped unconscious in the shower, bleeding—or worse. 

And then he’d banged open the door and seen the bullet wound on Bucky’s abdomen. The next thing he knew was that the mirror was shattered and his hand was throbbing in pain.

But his hand hadn’t hurt nearly as badly as the fear he’d seen in Bucky’s eyes when his boyfriend had looked at him.

The silent treatment Phil had given him in the car on the way to the emergency department had felt like way less than he actually deserved. 

Phil had registered him with the triage nurse at the ED and then left him with Bucky. His anger at Steve was palpable and Steve couldn’t help but feel relieved that Phil was taking some time. Steve and Bucky were now sitting together on the stiff metal chairs in the waiting area of the Urgent Care corridor. The towel from the bathroom was still wrapped around his hand, but the bleeding had stopped, which was good, but the injury still hurt like hell. Idly he wondered if he’d broken his knuckles on the glass the way Bruce had broken his knuckles on the brick wall when he’d had his own angry smashing incident two weeks ago. It’d be kind of funny if he ended up with a cast too, like Tony and Bruce. Broken-bone triplets. 

Okay. It wasn’t that funny.

He shifted in his seat and used it as an excuse to look at Bucky. 

Bucky was looking at him. His grey eyes dark and fathomless. 

“Hey.” Steve tried to smile, knowing it was falling terribly flat. He had a sudden image of the angry, red wound on Bucky’s side and he grimaced. 

“Your hand hurting you?”

“What?—Oh. No, not too bad, I guess.”

“You grimaced.” Bucky gestured at his face. “I thought maybe you were in pain.”

Steve shook his head again. His hand _did_ hurt, but it was his own fault. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s lips thinned. “Yeah. You’re fine all right. That’s why you busted the mirror.”

“I was mad.” 

“I kinda got that. Steve,” Bucky sighed. “What’s going on?”

“You got hurt,” Steve mumbled. He looked down at his hands. The cloth was still damp from Bucky’s shower and it was wet and cold against his skin.

“Six days ago,” Bucky said, irritated. “I’m getting better.” 

“Yeah, it _was_ only six days ago. Do you really think you’re ready to go up the stairs? Or take a shower?” 

Bucky scowled at him. “But I did do that. I did both those things. Didn’t you notice?”

_That’s why I hit the mirror,_ Steve thought. He didn’t know why seeing Bucky in the bathroom had made him so angry, but it had. All the anger that Steve felt when he saw the terrible hole in Bucky’s side was back, like it’d never left at all. “I did. And I think it was too early.”

“It was six days ago!” Bucky repeated. “Steve you gotta stop worrying.” 

“You got _shot_ Bucky! How can I not worry about that?”

“Because I’m fine?” Bucky said. “I went up the stairs and took a shower no problem! I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine. You almost died!” 

“Jesus, Steve!” Bucky swore. “Will you let that go?”

The other people in the waiting area were now looking at him and Bucky with undisguised curiosity as their heated conversation reached their ears. Steve made an effort to lower his voice. “You almost died!” Steve said again. “How can I let that go?”

“Because I’m _fine,_ ” Bucky repeated. “And yes, it hurt, and _yes_ it was fucking scary, but I’ve had good doctors and a good talk with Sam and a good cry and now I’m _fine._ So can you _please_ let it go?”

“How can I?” Steve said yet again. “I nearly lost you, Bucky! I wasn’t here and then Pietro shot you and—“

“Whoa, whoa.” Bucky raised his hand up in a halting gesture. “Pietro didn’t shoot me!”

“Close enough! It was his fucking psychotic _friends_ who would’ve never been here except for him bringing them—“ Belatedly Steve realized he was yelling when the woman with the two small children shot him a censuring look.

“No, Steve. No!” Bucky interrupted. “Pietro had nothing to do with this! He didn’t bring his friends here to hurt me and he sure as fuck didn’t do it himself! You really got to stop this shit!”

“Do you mind? There are small children here!” The woman reprimanded them.

“Sorry,” Bucky and Steve said together before Steve immediately picked up the conversation. “It was Pietro’s friends who shot you! His friends! _His!_ Why doesn’t anyone understand this?”

“Because you’re the one who’s wrong.”

The certainty in Bucky’s voice pulled Steve up short. “What?”

“Look, Steve,” Bucky said. “I know you love me, and I know seeing me hurt musta been awful for you, but it wasn’t Pietro’s fault. Put the blame where it belongs; on those two thugs who tried to kill us. Not Pietro. He didn’t bring them home, and he sure as fuck didn’t tell them to bring a gun! The only thing he did wrong was make some bad choices in friends, but that ain’t a crime.” 

“He told them where Tony lived!” 

“Yeah, because he trusted them. Because they were his friends.”

“But he told them that because he was angry at Tony! If he hadn’t been angry—“

“He told them because he _trusted_ them!” Bucky repeated. “Because they were his _friends!_ Are you saying that Pietro shouldn’t’ve trusted his _friends?_ ”

“How could’ve he made friends with those _murderers?_ ”

“Like I said before. It’s not like they would’ve had a _sign,_ ” Bucky said. “Jesus, how can you keep blaming this kid for trying to make friends?”

“How can you not?”

“Because I would’ve loved to have made friends when I was in school!” Bucky whispered forcefully. “Because when I couldn’t talk I was so fucking lonely, Steve. I was so scared and so lonely. I would’ve given anything to have had some friends. Someone who wouldn’t have made me talk. Who would’ve just spent time with me without needing to speak.” He moved so that he was looking deep into Steve’s eyes. “Did you know you were the first person in ten years who ever did that for me?” 

“I had no idea,” Steve said thickly. He hadn’t thought much about what things would’ve been like for Bucky before he came to Phil’s house. He’d just assumed that Bucky had enjoyed his isolation. It hadn’t really occurred to him that he hadn’t. 

“It’s no wonder I fell for you, ya big lug,” Bucky smiled at him. “Your heart’s as beautiful as your face.” 

That made Steve smile. “I love you, too.”

“Good.” Bucky grinned at him. “But as I was saying. I spent ten years not speaking, and Pietro’s spent the last five years just trying to survive. How the hell would he know what a good friend looks like?”

“Because he has Bruce and his sister. And Phil and the rest of us. He should know.”

“Right, because running with Bruce and Wanda would teach him oh so much about friendship. And then the rest of us having that love-in with Tony…He’d feel right at home.”

“But you got shot, Bucky.”

“And you fell off Captain, but I noticed you still give him apples whenever you can.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. The fear and misery of the last six days feeling suddenly overwhelming. “It’s not the same.”

“Why is this so tough for you? Steve, you’re beating the shit out of a kid whose first real high-school friends tried to kill him. Why can’t you see his side?”

“Because you almost died.” 

“But Steve—are you crying?”

Steve didn’t answer. He wiped at his eyes. 

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. “C’mere.” He moved his chair over until they were touching and then pulled Steve into a hug. Steve was sitting on Bucky’s left side, so the hug was awkward, but Steve wouldn’t have moved for the world. “I’m okay, Steve.” Bucky stroked his back. “I’m okay. You don’t need to cry.”

“I wasn’t here! You got shot and you almost _died_ and I wasn’t here and you could’ve _died_ and I would’ve never seen you again!” Steve wept against Bucky’s neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Bucky said, hugging Steve tightly and repeating it over and over until Steve felt his tears begin to ebb. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled after it felt like he’d been crying for hours. “I shouldn’t’ve done that. I’m sorry I hit the mirror. I’m sorry I was crying. I’m sorry.”

“You can apologize for the mirror, but you’d better not be apologizing for crying,” Bucky thumped him lightly on the shoulder. “What would Sam say about that?”

Steve chuffed a small laugh. “Good point.” 

Bucky gently wiped the tears off Steve’s face with his right thumb. “I love you, Stevie. And I’m sorry I scared you. But it wasn’t Pietro’s fault and you being mad at him isn’t going to make anything better.”

Steve trapped Bucky’s hand in his own and kissed his palm. “I’d just hate to lose you.” The idea felt like knives were stabbing through his heart. 

“I’d hate to lose me, too,” Bucky smirked. “I got a lot of things to live for.” He settled back onto his chair. “But I really need you to cut Pietro some slack. You gotta stop being angry at him. It’s not fair and it’s gotta stop, Steve. Okay?”

“But I nearly lost you,” Steve whispered. 

“But you didn’t. And you won’t. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Steve. You gotta believe that.” 

It was the same thing Steve had said to Bucky when he’d been in hospital. He closed his eyes against the new rush of tears that memory evoked. “’Til the end of the line,” he repeated when he felt like his voice wouldn’t betray him. It was a promise that Steve would give his life to keep.

“None of this shit is Pietro’s fault,” Bucky said again. 

“Why didn’t Pietro know?” Steve asked. He was still having trouble understanding how Pietro could’ve trusted such evil people. 

“Because his parents were killed when he was ten and his life went to shit,” Bucky said. “I can’t make it any more clear than that.”

“Okay,” Steve sighed. He sat back in his chair, thinking about Bucky’s ten years of silent loneliness and how awful that must have been for him. He thought about Pietro’s five years of fear and whether or not Pietro could’ve learned anything about friendship while he was just trying to survive. It made him wonder if maybe it hadn’t been Pietro’s fault that Bucky was shot; that maybe Bucky was right, after all.

* * *

It had only taken about two and a half hours for Steve’s hand to be x-rayed, deemed unbroken and then stitched up by an extremely competent Physician’s Assistant named Miguel. They were now in the grey sedan heading back to the farm, and Phil decided it was time to break the omnipresent silence.

“I’m not actually angry anymore,” Phil said.

“Yessir,” Steve said from his seat on the passenger side. 

“But I am going to ask you to pay for a replacement mirror.” 

“Yessir,” Steve said.

“And you’ll need to fix the drywall.” 

“Yessir.” 

“And repaint the bathroom as well, to undo the damage you’ve done.”

“Yessir.” 

Phil glanced over at Steve. The numerous ‘yessirs’ were making Phil think that it was Steve’s typical withdrawal into very formal speech as a way of distancing himself. But Phil saw to his relief that Steve looked more contrite than stubbornly defiant. He was being polite to actually be polite.

“But I’m not angry,” Phil felt the need to clarify. 

“That’s a relief,” Bucky muttered from the backseat. Phil chose to ignore him.

“And don’t think that I’ve forgotten that you and I still need to talk about your fight with Pietro.” 

“Yessir.” 

“Because I need to understand what’s going on in that head of yours about that. Because the way you two are fighting? That can’t continue.”

“Yessir,” Steve said.

“And for _sure_ you’re going to have a conversation with Sam about all of this. A long conversation.” 

“Yessir,” Steve sighed.

“But really,” Phil said. “I’m not angry.” 

“And you’re only going to get bread and water while you’re locked up in your room, spinning your hair into gold so you can pay for the new mirror,” Bucky piped up. “But really, Phil’s not angry.”

Steve actually cracked a smile.

“Fine,” Phil muttered. “Maybe I’m a little angry.”

* * *

“You really don’t have to help,” Steve whispered to Clint. 

Phil looked up from where he was making himself coffee in the kitchen. It was just after seven a.m. on Friday morning and Phil had returned from his early-morning run. The house was quiet, with all the teenagers catching up on some much-needed sleep. The trauma of the last few days had taken a toll on everyone. 

Steve and Clint had just come up from the basement, obviously having gone to fetch the DIY tools that Phil had on hand. It made Phil very happy to realize that Steve had taken his direction seriously and was evidently planning on starting on the bathroom first thing.

“But it’s my fault, too,” Clint whispered back. “If I hadn’t made you mad by helping Bucky you wouldn’t’ve smashed the mirror.”

“No,” Steve said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was angry and I smashed the mirror and dented the wall. That’s all on me.” 

“But—“

“No,” Steve repeated a bit more forcefully. “Clint, you were helping Bucky. I got mad but it had nothing to do with you. You were helping and I was wrong for yelling at you. I’m sorry.”

Phil was impressed with Steve’s maturity. It was gratifying to see his eldest taking responsibility for his actions and being loving to Clint at the same time. It made Phil hopeful that when he spoke to Steve about his anger with Pietro, Steve might be a bit more receptive. He waited to hear Clint’s response.

“But don’t you need help? You hurt your hand.”

“My hand’s fine,” Steve said. “It’s not that painful.”

“Even with the stitches?”

“As long as I’m careful, yes.”

“Well, can I help you anyway?” Clint asked. “I like doing this stuff.” 

Phil could hear the smile in Steve’s voice. “Don’t you have something better to do on a Friday with no school than to help me?”

“There’s nothing better than hanging with my brother,” Clint said.

Phil grinned to himself. It was going to be a good day.

* * *

The repair of the bathroom got complicated very quickly. 

Pepper, Natasha and Wanda had made it their personal mission to pick out both a new mirror and new paint colours for the bathroom, which apparently couldn’t happen without wainscoting and new light fixtures as well. Matching towels, bathmats and pretty soap dispensers completed the look and by the time the young women had returned from town, carrying several bags apiece, Phil was suddenly very happy that he’d agreed to let Tony make a financial contribution. 

Since it was their colour choice, the women decided they had to be the ones to help paint, and then Tony insisted that Bruce had the steadiest hands for placing the wainscoting, even with his right hand still in a cast. Tony also insisted he could wire in the new light fixtures regardless of his own right hand also being in a cast, which created a huge argument until Pepper ended it by telling Tony to let Wanda do it under his direction while Steve helped to support the weight of the lights.

Phil spent the same time period with Pietro and Bucky, who were still too injured to help with the repairs. This consisted of assisting them with their homework. Now that Pietro was going to be homeschooled with the others, he needed to be at the same place as they were in their lessons. Bucky just needed practise with sharing his ideas out loud.

“God,” Bucky muttered. “Nineteen-Eighty Four is so _boring!_ ”

“I know what you mean,” Pietro said. “I feel like I have lived through this dystopian world. It is like the book is set in Latveria.”

Phil laughed. “I think that was kind of the point; that the story would seem realistic enough that the people reading it could relate—even if they hadn’t lived in a refugee camp.”

“So, when is Ms. Carter coming back, anyway?” Bucky asked. He gave Phil an apologetic look. “No offense.” 

“None taken.” Phil smiled. He knew how popular Peggy was with the children, and how she had a particular knack of making even the most boring of reading assignments interesting and fun. “She’ll be back on Monday. And she’ll be bringing Jonas with her. He’s going to be joining you for his schooling from now on.” 

“That’s cool.” Bucky slid his eyes to Pietro. “Wanda should be happy about that.” 

“I have no comment,” Pietro said. “Except to agree.” He and Bucky grinned knowingly at each other. 

“I’m hungry!” Tony came bounding down the stairs and into the living room. There was a stripe of a colour that Pepper had delightedly called ‘blue grotto’ smeared across his cheek. “Me and the rest of the orphan brigade were wondering if we could order pizza.” He’d been followed by Bruce, Clint, Natasha and Wanda, with Steve and Pepper taking up the rear. All of the children had splatters of various oceanic colours on them, making Phil a bit worried that the bathroom would end up looking like a tacky seaside resort. 

“I like pizza.” Clint grinned. “Can we get spicy sausage?”

“Vegetarian for me and Bruce,” Wanda said. “But I do not like onions.” 

“I like onions,” Clint said. 

“Can we get Canadian?” Natasha asked. “But with sundried tomatoes as well?”

“I’ll go for that,” Bucky said.

“Why don’t you just order a pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, Canadian bacon and sundried tomatoes?” Tony asked. 

“Because then it’s not Canadian.”

“But it’s not like the pizza _comes_ from Canada!” Tony said. “It’s just what they call it.”

“Can I get vegetarian, too?” Pepper said. “I’ll eat whatever Bruce and Wanda are having.”

Tony clutched his chest dramatically with his casted hand. “ _Vegetarian?_ Pepper! Love of my life! Why would you _do_ that?” 

“Ow!” Bucky grasped his side, looking accusingly at Tony. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Stop finding me funny,” Tony said to him.

“Yes, we can get pizza!” Phil said, “But only if you’re quiet!” Everyone shut up and Phil sighed in relief. “Okay. I’ve heard what just about everyone else wants. Bruce?”

Bruce tilted up one shoulder. “I’ll eat anything as long as its vegetarian.” 

“Traitor.” Tony muttered.

“Great,” Phil made a note. “Pietro?”

“I am happy with Clint’s choice.” 

“Spicy sausage!” Clint said gleefully. 

“Excellent.” Phil looked at his eldest son. “Steve?”

“I need to say something.”

Everyone immediately focussed on Steve. He was standing a bit away from the rest of them, looking both determined and unsure at the same time.

Tony blinked. “About the pizza?”

“Did you change your mind about the army?” Clint’s eyes were wide with concern.

“He wouldn’t,” Natasha muttered threateningly. 

“Wait—It’s not because I was making Bucky laugh, is it?” Tony said. “Because it’s not my fault that I’m so funny it overrides Bucky’s sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re not that funny,” Bruce said.

“I’m not so sure I want to hear what you want to say,” Pietro said archly to Steve. “I think I may have heard enough from you already.”

“I would like to maybe order our pizza before you yell again,” Wanda said sarcastically. “I do not like fighting on an empty stomach.” 

“Why don’t we let him speak?” Phil said to the group. He gestured to Steve. “Come, join us.”

Steve moved closer, ending up standing beside where Bucky was sitting. He turned to Pietro and straightened his back. “I owe you an apology.” 

The brought Pietro up short. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I’ve been blaming you for Bucky’s—Bucky’s injury when it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t right and I’m sorry.”

The surprise of the group was palpable. 

“You’re just apologizing?” Tony said. “Just like that?”

“I don’t understand.” Wanda looked between Pietro and Steve. “I thought you hated Pietro!”

“I never _hated_ him—“ Steve said.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bruce muttered. 

“—I was just angry at him. For inviting those boys to the farm.”

“That wasn’t his fault!” Bruce interjected. “He didn’t know—“

Pietro put his hand on Bruce’s arm to quiet him. “Thank you,” he said to Steve. “I am very glad to hear this. I do not like us to be enemies.”

Steve’s smile was small but genuine. “Me, too.”

“Wow,” Natasha drawled. “That must have been a hell of a fight you guys had the other night.”

Pietro winced. 

“You heard that?” Steve said, blushing. “You’re on the front side of the house!”

“I’m a light sleeper,” Natasha said. “Plus the three of you were yelling like banshees.” 

“They were the banshees. I was a paragon of self-restraint.” Tony said.

“It wasn’t the fight that changed my mind, actually. It was Bucky. He talked some sense into me yesterday when we were at the hospital.”

Bucky leaned against Steve. “I’m just glad you listened.”

“Me, too,” Phil said to Steve. “It’s made the conversation we’re going to have much shorter and probably a bit more pleasant.” 

That made Steve laugh. “Good thing my boyfriend’s such a persuasive talker.” 

Phil took a moment to absorb Steve’s words. Before February, Bucky hadn’t spoken at all in ten years, and now he was speaking well enough to help Steve change his mind about something really important. It was incredible.

“I’m glad, too,” Wanda said. “Steve, you saved my brother’s life. That is what I want to matter most.” Bruce nodded to her words, obviously agreeing. 

“I’m happy you don’t blame me anymore. But I’m very sorry that I chose such bad friends,” Pietro said solemnly. “I thought they were different. I should’ve known.” 

“We had guys like that in the circus,” Clint said. “Nice to your face, but then stab you in the back in a second. My brother was like that.” His face fell and Natasha took his hand.

“You have real friends now,” she said to him. 

“We all do,” Bucky said. 

“We have more than that,” Tony said, grinning at Phil. “We have a family.”

“Yes,” Phil said, looking at his children. “Yes, we do.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Moj Dragi = my darling. I have Pietro and Wanda speak Serbian as a stand-in for Sokovian (which, of course, doesn't exist.)
> 
> The great quote Sam Wilson says: "Suicide just shifts the pain to someone else” is not original to me. I couldn't find the actual source on the internet, so if any of you know, please tell me and I'll credit accordingly.
> 
> Sam also talks about [Dr. Gabor Mate](http://drgabormate.com/) who is an incredible human being. I have been highly moved by his works on the causes of physical and mental ailments, and how we can better care for society's most vulnerable citizens.


End file.
